


Leave Your Secrets and Kiss the Whiskey from My Lips

by victoriousscarf



Series: Secrets/Whiskey [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 1920s, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangster, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Police, Casual Racism, Excessive dwarf feelings sneaked in here, Incest, Multi, Period-Typical Racism, Police, Prohibtion, Smoking, The Valar are police officers and lawyers and politicians -- except Morgoth, The sons of Feanor are co-dependent, everyone smokes because it's the 20s, the Noldorians are gangsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:16:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pro·hi·bi·tion noun<br/>1.the action of forbidding something, especially by law.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts).



> While I know for sure I was the one who first said "Hey, Silm 1920s AU" I am blaming LiveOakWithMoss for encouraging the hell out of me and e-mailing me back and forth about Celegorm and Oromë and giving me tons of headcanons and ideas to work with.
> 
> Racism of the past is complicated. "Whites" did not unify as a group that didn't discriminate against other "whites" until the 1960s.
> 
> (Also it might be relevant to note I started this story while wearing a nail polish shade entitled "sparkling garbage")

Curufin snubbed his cigarette out on the wall before approaching the doors to Nargothrond. “Hello,” he said, approaching so silently he startled the bouncer at the door.

“Hello,” he said, turning and almost tripping over his feet. Curufin arched a long, slow brow at that, mouth quirked to one side. The bouncer’s companion was standing right inside the door and he moved quickly from a slouched over position with his arms crossed over his chest to standing straight. “Do you know the password?” the bouncer asked.

Curufin’s brow only rose higher as the man inside the door grabbed the arm of the bouncer and tugged.

“That’s his cousin,” he hissed. “He doesn’t need to know the password just let him in.”

“Oh,” the bouncer said, looking back at Curufin’s cold smile. “Sorry. This is only my second night. Don’t worry, I’ll remember your face next time.”

“If you last that long,” Curufin said and breezed past the man’s sudden shocked and hurt expression. Curufin tried to suppress his smile as he walked down the stairs, the creaky staircase hidden alongside an old grocer opening up into a vast underground chamber.

He paused like he usually did at the bottom of the stairs, tilting his head back, sardonic smile already coming back to see the electric lights catching the crystal chandeliers and reflecting that light down to the floor below, tables crowded with drinking patrons and a band at the small stage at the far end of the room. Though the whole room was carved out of natural rock, gold glistened in the corners, metal and gilt-work covering the walls, the tables, the chairs, even the bar along one end. The labels of the whiskey, scotch and old wine, all imported from Europe had also been given new, golden labels.

It was never difficult for Curufin to spot Finrod on the floor, standing and laughing, Bëor hovering at his shoulders like a silent watch dog.

Once he had his fill at looking at Nargothrond, Curufin drifted across the floor to where his cousin was talking brightly to a tall and thin man with dark hair and heavy eyes. “Turgon,” he greeted first, his other cousin narrowing his eyes at him. “It’s odd to see you out and about.”

“Cousin,” Finrod greeted, a chiding tone in his voice and Curufin only looked at him. Except Finrod was smiling at him, undermining the tone entirely. “Be nice, we like it when Turgon comes out of his own little hole.”

“It is not a hole,” Turgon said. “It is almost as grand as this place.”

“No place,” Finrod said, and he grinned. “Is as grand as this place.”

“I did say almost,” Turgon said, relaxing for a moment when he looked at Finrod and forgot Curufin stood there as well. Remembering, he turned to consider his other cousin. “What are you doing here, Curufin?”

“Can I not come simply to enjoy the company of my cousins?” Curufin asked and Turgon narrowed his eyes slightly. “Though I admit I only expected one cousin.”

“You enjoy the company of your brothers, not your cousins,” Turgon returned and Finrod laughed, a hand landing on Turgon’s arm.

“Now now,” he said. “There’s no need for either of you to be like that. Turgon came out for once and we should celebrate that with a drink. We even have representation from all the sides of our family!”

Turgon scowled at Curufin, who smiled serenely back until he finally nodded. Finrod dragged them both off to a table in the corner, motioning to Bëor who looked unhappier by the moment to get them all a drink.

“This is not what I came here for,” Curufin said, mouth pressed up against Finrod’s ear in the crowd as they moved toward the table, Turgon in front of them. He felt the tiny shiver that traveled down Finrod’s spine.

“No,” he agreed, lowly, turning his head so only Curufin could hear him in turn. “Patience and you’ll have it.”

So Curufin sat, ignoring the looks Turgon kept sending him from time to time and sipped the whiskey Finrod put in front of him until Turgon finally rose. Curufin did not have to check his watch to see that it had been a couple hours already.

“I might have had other plans tonight,” he said, looking at Finrod over the edge of the glass as he finally swallowed the last of the whiskey.

“This is better quality then anything your father would have,” Finrod said, waving the bottle. “Do you want another glass?”

“No,” Curufin said, leaning his elbows against the table and tilting forward, watching Finrod’s eyes darken across the small table. “I am surprised you did not walk Turgon to the door.”

“I think you would have tried to kill him if I had,” Finrod said, pushing himself gracefully to his feet. “You were patient enough, I think.”

“I certainly do not want another glass then,” Curufin said, and Finrod hummed, leading the way toward the back of the club, where there were rooms to store the shipments of alcohol and further beyond that his personal rooms, where he lived. “You know,” Curufin remarked, for the hundredth time. “Most people do not live in their clubs.”

Finrod shrugged. “It hardly feels less safe than anywhere else I could live.” He turned, his smile bright on Bëor who looked resigned at knowing what was already coming. “That will be all for tonight.”

“But,” Bëor started, ignoring the dark look from Curufin and melting already under the bright smile Finrod gave him. “My job is to protect you, sir.”

“I hardly need protection from Curufin,” Finrod said and Bëor’s expression showed how little he believed that. “I have been dealing with him quite successfully since we were children.”

Curufin waited until Bëor had finally turned the corner before tilting his head at Finrod.  “Successfully,” he repeated, running a hand down Finrod’s spine and feeling him shiver. “Do you call this dealing with me successfully?”

Finrod’s smile was totally different from the one he had on the floor and Curufin pressed him back against the nearest wall, holding his arms above his head at the wrists. “I am getting what I want,” he said, tilting his head for Curufin to press a hungry kiss there. “I think that is the definition of successful.”

“Perhaps,” Curufin agreed, inching their mouths together and swallowing Finrod’s tiny sound of want. “Have you missed me?”

“No,” Finrod said too flippantly and Curufin bit his neck. Finrod bent his knees slightly, enough to press a kiss to Curufin’s mouth before he could draw back, even though Curufin still held him. “But I am always happy when you decide to come.”

“Are you,” Curufin said, not a question as he released one of Finrod’s hands to trail his fingers across his cheekbone and down his throat. “You know, most people wear ties, bowties even,” he said, fingers brushing across the jeweled necklace Finrod wore around his throat instead.

“I like this more,” Finrod said, the jeweled collar heavy and tucked into the collar of his shirt.

“I suppose it does suit your persona,” Curufin agreed, dragging his teeth down Finrod’s jaw line.

“Yes, I rather think it does,” Finrod said, tilting his head, still pressed against the wall barely feet away from his actual door. “Though I suppose I would argue it suits me, not solely my persona.”

“You are your persona,” Curufin said quietly, biting at the juncture behind his ear and Finrod laughed again, fingers digging into Curufin’s waist.

“Ah, Curufin, you are the only one who gets away with talking to me like that,” he said, tilting his chin back before gently shoving Curufin until he could step away from the wall.

Curufin followed him with his eyes before he moved to catch up, grabbing Finrod by the waist before he reached the door and yanking his back against his front, teeth finding Finrod’s ear. “And you adore it,” he said, Finrod tilting his head with a low moan. “You wait for the nights I come with your heart in your throat. Do not think I do not see the way your smile changes when you see me.”

“Perhaps everyone else is just a little boring,” Finrod said and broke out of Curufin’s hold again, entering his chambers. “Say, your shadow is not here tonight. He usually is, even on the night when I first took you in here.”

Curufin scowled at the memory. “My brother is capable of taking care of himself.”

“Really?” Finrod was smiling again. “Because he was not then. As I recall, it was pouring rain and you both looked like drowned rats, him covered in blood.”

Curufin did not mention that Celegorm often was. “And yet you were willing to let us inside and kiss me anyway.”

“Ah,” Finrod held up a finger, pressing it against Curufin’s lips. “You kissed me and I let you.”

Curufin wrapped his arms around Finrod’s waist. “You let me do a great many number of things then. And still.”

“And still,” Finrod agreed, twining his arms around Curufin’s shoulders as Curufin’s hand came up to tug on the necklace around his throat, twisting the metal and jewels in his fingers to drag Finrod in to another open mouth kiss.

-0-

“You seem distracted,” Tulkas said, when Oromë had been staring out the window in his office for several minutes of silence.

Startling, Oromë turned back. “My apologies,” he said. “I did not sleep well last night.”

“I could give you another position you know,” Tulkas said, the old and tired fight. Oromë narrowed his eyes, not bothering to do much more then shake his head. “You do not have the work the hours you do for the pay you do .Your family—”

“Which you married in to,” Oromë pointed out.  

“They and I want to support you.”

“Next time you want to try and promote me, you might consider approaching me with my own merits first,” Orome said, and Tulkas sighed, propping his chin on his hands and considering the dark skinned man in front of him.

“Are you not sleeping because of Morgoth?”  he asked after a moment.

Oromë inclined his head. “Of course. You know he was released today again.”

“Funny, how he has such good behavior in prison and such horrible behavior once he is out yet again,” Tulkas said, voice low and angry and Oromë shrugged.

“He is good at charming his jailors,” he said.

“As well as his family,”

Oromë sighed, looking out the window again. “Not that fight,” he murmured. “Manwë ever does what he feels is right, no matter who else burns for it.”

“Which might as well be the town with how kindly he is on his brother,” Tulkas snapped.

“You may take it up with him the next time you are at his house,” Oromë said. “As we all have at varying times. It would be easier to move mountains that convince Manwë his brother is beyond saving.”

“He is endangering everyone else,” Tulkas started and Oromë shook his head. “Fine,” Tulkas sighed. “I will bring it up with Manwë next I see him.”

“I am simply worried that so much of his gang remained untouched,” Oromë said. “We never got close to pinning anything Sauron and who knows what he has been doing while his master has been away.”

Tulkas frowned. “Is it really right to call your cousin his master, like he was some sort of dog?”

Oromë’s eyes flickered up and he stared at Tulkas for a moment before shrugging. “Perhaps not. But it has always seemed to reflect their relationship best. Sauron serves and Morgoth rules and they kill and destroy whoever they please and we only try to catch them.”

Tulkas sighed, rubbing his temples. “I am sorry,” Oromë said.  “Was this more of a headache then you were wishing for tonight?”

“Yes,” Tulkas said and Oromë pushed himself to his feet.

“Then goodnight,” he said. “I am due to go home anyway. If you will excuse me, I will finish the last of the reports and head home.”

Tulkas nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “We’ll discuss Morgoth and what can be done more tomorrow. I would hate to see him simply pick up where he left off.”

“As would we all, I think,” Oromë said, stepping out of Tulkas’ office and pausing when he heard a commotion from the door. Several officers came in, dragging behind them a blond with a bloody lip and knuckles, who seemed to be laughing at the officers holding him.

Oromë froze, grabbing the first passing officer. “What is going on?”

“Oh, that’s one of Fëanor’s sons,” the officer said. “One of the middle ones. We usually can never make anything stick to any of them though.”

“Of course not,” Oromë said, and he could not tear his eyes away. As the officers dragged the man past, his eyes flickered up and for a horrible moment Oromë and his eyes met. The other man’s eyes widened, even though he had clearly been drinking and he held Oromë’s gaze as long as he could, until he passed the point where he could twist back to look anymore. “What is he in here for tonight?” Oromë asked, having taken an unconscious step after him. Realizing what he was doing, he stopped, forcing himself to stand still and not follow.

“Who knows,” the officer shrugged. “Usually all we can do is nab him for disorderly behavior, even though it is clear he’d been drinking and fighting. We’ll never be able to find the other person he was fighting with. In fact, even if we have witnesses saying him and some other man were fighting, they will both swear at point blank they were only having a friendly chat, even with the same bloody knuckles.” The officer shook his head. “Goddamn Noldorians. Think they can kill each other and fight each other and outsiders have no business in theirs. We usually throw them in the cells overnight when we can.” The officer squinted at Oromë for a moment. “Huh. Guess you don’t usually work the night shift.”

“Not usually,” he agreed, fingers twitching and he forced himself to turn and walk to his desk, listlessly looking at the reports he had just promised to finish.

For a moment he sat, flexing his fingers and trying not to stare toward where the Noldorian had been dragged, and he wondered if he was still laughing. Running a hand through his hair, Oromë swore under his breath and straightened the reports in front of him. Losing himself in the reports, he spent another hour there before rising.

On his way to the door, having left the reports on Tulkas’ desk, he found himself stopping again, almost walking back to the holding cells. When he had stood frozen for five minutes, he gave up and walked at least as far as the officer on duty.

“That Noldorian,” he said. “Who came in here earlier. Do you know what his name is?”

“Sure,” the officer said. “Celegorm. Goddamn menace he is. Son of Fëanor, the worst of the lot in all of Little Beleriand. One of these days, I almost guarantee we’ll get him in here on a murder charge.” Oromë heard a scoffing laugh from the cell, but he forced himself not to look.  

“Yes, thank you,” he said, feeling distracted.

“Sure thing. See you in the morning, sir,” the officer said and Oromë nodded, still distracted as he walked into the night air. He tried not to think about the wide eyes that had met his across the room, or the jolt that had gone through him upon seeing the other.

“It’s nothing,” he wanted to tell the pavement he walked home on.

“I’ll never see him again,” he wanted to tell the stars above him.

“I am too old and too smart for this,” he wanted to yell at the water he walked along.

Except that when he finally reached home, pulling his uniform off and sinking down into the bed, all he could think about was the blood on the man’s lips, the light in his eyes and the control of his body even when being dragged between two officers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The playlist for this fic is already getting ridiculous (So is Fingon. Fingon is ridiculous and I should never have allowed him into this story)

Groaning, Fingon tugged his blankets higher up around his head as Aredhel yanked them back down in turn. “Get up, father wants to talk to you.”

“It is too early,” Fingon said, pulling at the blankets. “It’s only… noon?” he tried, a bit more skeptically when he tilted his head back enough to see the clock.

“Exactly,” she said. “It’s already noon, get up, we need to go.”

“But noon is early when you spend all night collecting tithes,” Fingon groaned, finally pushing back the blankets and sitting up.

“Tithes?” Aredhel asked, brows up. “We run a protection racket, not church.”

“Well,” Fingon said with a shrug as he rose, stretching his arms up over his head. “If you think about it. The church asks for a certain amount of money to save your immortal soul. We demand a certain percentage of money to save your worldly goods. So, it’s basically the same thing.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, throwing a shirt at his head. “Get dressed. And if you start bringing up German philosophers or something, I am tossing you out the window and you can explain to dad why you have a broken arm.”

“Ah, but which German philosopher?” he asked, catching the shirt easily before bending down to consider his hair in the small vanity mirror.

“I don’t care, any of them,” she said. “It is way too early,” and Fingon laughed because it was noon. “To deal with you being a cynic.”

“Dear sister,” Fingon said. “I am not a cynic, I’m a realist.”

“Same difference,” she said. “Hurry up.”

Once they were finally on their way down the stairs, she looked at him sideways. “So. How is school anyway?”

“Shall we not talk of such things?” he asked instead.

“If you failed another class,” she started and he tsked, shaking his head.

“I have not failed a single class,” he said. “I have simply removed myself from them before I could. So it is all totally under control.”

“If you don’t want to go to law school, it might be easier simply to talk to father about it,” she said and he shook his head, looking at the ground and kicking a fallen cigarette box off the curb.

“No one said I did not want to go to law school,” he said. “It seems the accumulation of all the time and effort and money others have spent on my education.” When she only stared at him he sighed. “Isn’t it ironic though? I collect illegal taxes by night and argue the meaning of right and wrong by day. It’s distressing, because I cannot tell if father wanted me to go to law school to have a pet lawyer in the family to defend us all, or if he really is subtly trying to push me out.”

“Last time he pushed you all the way to Europe for most of your childhood,” Aredhel pointed out. “I personally am hedging on that later.”

“How distressing that all of his children have followed in his footsteps,” Fingon murmured, and slowed as they passed a bakery. A red head could be seen, bent over a pile of papers, much like he could be found every morning until early afternoon.

“Are you ever going to actually talk to him?” Aredhel asked, because Fingon had come to almost a complete stop.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, shaking his head and moving again.

“Every time you walk by here if he is inside, you stop and stare,” his sister pointed out. “Do not lie. Why not simply go inside and talk to him?”

“What would I say?” Fingon replied. “Nevermind. It is silly anyway. Besides, father wants to see us you said.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I did say that because he does. Alright, come along then.”

-0-

Celegorm paced the apartment he shared with Curufin, at the top of an old building. “Stop that infernal racket,” Curufin muttered, bent over a sheaf of papers.

“It is not a racket,” his brother protested, throwing himself on the sagging couch and Curufin gave him a dark look before shaking his head and bending over the papers again. “I’m just restless,” Celegorm said after five minutes of carefully holding himself still and trying not to even breathe too loudly.

Curufin closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “And if you go out tonight will you only get yourself tossed into jail again?”

“That happens far less then you make out,” Celegorm protested. “Besides, it was Thingol’s goddamn men, like usual.”

“Stop blaming them for your own folly,” Curufin returned. “And if you are going to be so petulant, you could prove that you can be let out on your own without getting into a fight or arrested.”

“Ah,” Celegorm grinned at the ceiling. “How kind your words of affection are. Does our dear cousin swoon when you murmur sweet nothings to him?” Curufin stilled, long fingers wrapped around a pen and for a moment it looked like he stopped breathing before a slow, cold smile curled his mouth.

“What I whisper to him is hardly sweet nothings. And hardly your business.”

“You’re more willing to tell me when you are drunk,” Celegorm said. “The things you have said then—I am certain it would make even him blush, to hear the way you talk about him.”

It made Curufin flush, though it looked more like anger then embarrassment. “And shall I remind you of the things you say when you have had too much drink?”

“No,” Celegorm said abruptly and he was moving again, flinging himself from the couch. “I’m going out.”

“Of course you are,” Curufin said, barely looking at him.

In the morning Celegorm would come back with a bottle of sparkling cider and new pain medication for Curufin’s headaches and Curufin would try and glare at him but instead his face would melt into a smile and they would be alright again. But some nights the tension ran too thick between them, and Celegorm ran away because he felt suffocated and itchy for something he could not describe. There were plenty of nights that Curufin wandered to Nargothrond for the same reasons and in the morning they did not talk about it.

They simply brought each other peace offerings and moved on until the next time it happened.

Throwing his head back, Celegorm sucked in the late winter air, the stars barely visible in the low light of the streetlamps.

He turned his feet away from Doriath or his own father’s holdings, heading out of Little Beleriand. For a while he let himself wander, trying to be aimless until he found himself in front of a façade that was almost starting to look familiar to him.

Ducking his head down, he slid through the door, coming out into a dancehall, mirrors up along the walls and jazz music thuddering through the room. Laughing couples were on the floor, tables along the edges and full of more couples. Only a few were empty, and even fewer had only one occupant.

Celegorm found himself chatting with a pretty girl, in a slip of a beaded dress, as his eyes sought out who he was looking for. Sure enough, the same cop was sitting in the corner, like he often seemed to be.  Celegorm tried not to think about how often he found himself in this room over the last few weeks, tried not to think about the times he felt the same eyes watching him even in Little Beleriand.

He let the pretty girl pull him into a dance, because he felt his skin itching again and needed to be moving. But he did not want to run away from the gaze, that he felt like it was touching his skin when the man across the room noticed him. When that girl was tired, another appeared, and he touched her waist too daringly, held her closer then the dance called for and she looked up at him with smoky eyes.

At the end of the song, he smeared a kiss across her cheek and left her there on the middle of the dance floor, fingers trailing along her waist as he moved away. “Thanks, doll,” he said, already leaving. He heard her offended sound, but before he had reached the door she had already found another partner.

His need to move was no longer filled by the dance and he was outside before he even registered he had been moving toward the door. Rolling his shoulders back, he turned to return to Little Beleriand and found himself looking at a dark form that stood outside, smoking.

“Oh,” he managed, and dark eyes were turned toward him. “Oh,” he repeated as the form turned into the cop that he had been watching for days now, since that night their eyes met across the station. “You know,” he said, his mouth running away from him. “You really should not follow me.”

“Excuse me?” the cop asked, and Celegorm had never actually gone weak in the knees just listening to a voice. He had only heard it vaguely that night in the station and not since.

Instead of dwelling on that, he blazed on. “You. Following me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“I am not following you,” was the response, though the other looked uncomfortable.

“Yeah, sure,” Celegorm said, and he felt like yelling or running because he was talking to this man like it was nothing, like he was actually angry, and like every time he spoke little shivers didn’t try to run down Celegorm’s spine. “Which is why every time I turn around you are standing there. Look. Don’t. Don’t follow me, you have no idea what or who you’re messing with.”

“Don’t I?” came the quiet question back.

“No,” Celegorm said, and he was aware he had barely stepped away from the door, others were still passing them on either side of the road. A few glanced toward them, but most did not bother. “So stop it.”

He turned, because the urge to run was becoming too strong.

“Even if I was following you,” the cop said though and Celegorm stopped dead, not breathing for a second before he turned back around. “It would hardly matter. Because you are the one following me.”

“I,” Celegorm started and stopped before trying again. “I am not.” It came out weakly and he almost growled at himself, like Curufin did at him every time he lied.

The cop hummed, leaning forward and Celegorm felt pinned, because he was strong and he knew it, but this man towered over him even more then Maedhros did. “Good night then,” the cop said and Celegorm swayed, almost falling toward him in an attempt to keep him from leaving.

“Yeah, whatever,” he said instead and the only way he could describe what he did was a retreat. He fled because he could feel that voice down into his bones and he kept thinking about the way that the cop could have lifted him up and broken him with maybe one hand. He breezed through the tiny corner shop that was open too late, his peace offerings in hand before the clock had even struck one.

When he came thudding back into the apartment Curufin startled, looking quickly at the clock like he had lost hours of the night. “What,” he started, Celegorm dropping the cider and pain pills next to his arm and retreating back into his bedroom.

Stripping quickly, he threw himself into bed and pulled the pillow to his face, trying to stop himself from wanting to shake.

“Brother?” Curufin asked from the door.  

“Go away, I’m fine,” Celegorm muttered.

“Of course you are,” Curufin said, and he inched into the dark room, sitting gingerly on the edge of Celegorm’s bed. “Which is why you have returned so early.”

“I didn’t want to stay out,” Celegorm said.

“You don’t even smell like sex or drink,” Curufin commented, quietly and Celegorm shook his head. Hesitantly, Curufin reached a hand out, running his fingers through Celegorm’s fair hair, so unlike his six other brother’s.

“I’m fine,” Celegorm repeated.

“Of course you are,” Curufin said, but kept petting his hair until Celegorm fell asleep anyway.

-0-

Nerdanel brushed out her long red hair before pulling it back into one long thick braid, watching Fëanor who lay with his back turned to her in the vanity mirror the whole while. “I had another letter from father,” she said finally and he hummed.

“Does he want you to leave me and come home again?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, rising and climbing into the bed behind him, wrapping a hand around his waist. “As he ever tries to plead with me. I think he disapproves of my marriage.”

“You think,” Fëanor returned, sounding amused.   

She twined her hands around his waist, pressing her mouth to his shoulder. “Why does it still bother you? Do you really think I am going to wake up some day and decide he’s right?” When her husband remained silent she sighed. “Seven sons and a life time together. And still.”

“And still,” he agreed. “I am still surprised.”

“Well,” she smiled against his bare skin, tilting her head to press a kiss to the back of his neck. “I suppose it is good that I can still keep surprising you after all these years, even if it is only in the same slow and steady way.”

“He might be right in that it is dangerous for you here,” Fëanor said.

“As it has ever been,” she returned and paused. “Ah. You are worried about Morgoth again, aren’t you?”

“Who isn’t?” Fëanor huffed. “That bastard,” and he trailed off, her mouth still pressed against his skin. “He is dangerous. He almost killed Maedhros, let alone the rest of us. And now he’s been let out of prison so early. None of our own could have managed such an early release.”

“The odds are stacked against us,” Nerdanel agreed.

“It would be safer—” Fëanor started.  

“And while I am at it, why not take all seven of our sons with us when I run away to hide?” Nerdanel deadpanned and Fëanor actually turned around to stare at her. “I promised to share my life with you. A madman is not going to change that, nor is my father.”

Fëanor smiled, tucking a strand of hair that had already escaped back behind her ear. “Should I not call your father a madman as well?”

“It might be best if you did not,” she agreed, nuzzling back up against his throat. “Have you heard much from our sons, lately?”

“Yes,” Fëanor said. “They have all agreed to come to lunch, most even in a timely manner, next Saturday. Including Caranthir.”  

“Good,” she said. “I worry about them all. Especially Maedhros.”

“Why especially Maedhros?” Fëanor asked.

“He is so serious,” she said. “It is fair to be careful and cautious, especially now. But,” she stopped and shook her head, fingers stroking Fëanor’s stomach. Her husband shifted against her and she smiled faintly. “But I still worry.”

“You want all your family to smile,” Fëanor said.  

“Yes,” she agreed. “And that includes you.”

“I smile,” Fëanor said, running a hand down her spine. “When I am with you,” and he proved it with a soft smile.

“Yes,” she agreed, leaning up to press a careful kiss to his mouth which quickly turned hungry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All three scenes take place the same night. That's probably more incidental then important.

Sauron flicked the end of his cigarette, watching the doorway across the street. He had been standing there almost an hour since night had fallen, waiting for the door to open.

Finally his patience was rewarded as the door opened, Morgoth stepping outside with his hair wild and tie undone around his neck. “Ah,” Sauron murmured. “Have you finished your whoring and debauchery then?”

“Jealous?” Morgoth asked with a slow smirk as he quickly knotted the tie around his neck.

Sauron scoffed, stubbing out his cigarette. “Please,” he drawled. “I hardly care if you want to fuck strange men or women. But if you insist on more of this before return to business—”

“You’ll what?” Morgoth asked, grabbing Sauron’s chin and dragging him forward. “What will you try and threaten me with?”

Sauron yanked his head back. “Simply that you will probably have to find a way to deal with Gothmog yourself,” he said, voice not breaking from his even drawl.

Morgoth laughed as Sauron resettled his shoulders and smoothed down his jacket. “Ah, Gothmog. Has he been fuming in angry silence, all those long years?”

“You demanded we all go to ground,” Sauron replied. “That we lay low and wait for you to return. And we have. But now you have returned and I do believe we would all like to get back to work.”

“How long three years must have felt to you,” Morgoth mocked. “And yet you obeyed so beautifully, holding your peace and staying quietly out of the way. I suppose you all want to remind the world why we once were so feared?”

“Yes,” Sauron said, a hint of longing barely edging around the corners of his voice. “We have held our ground, as you requested. The world has changed though, since you last ruled the underworld. You still have your territory, boarded up as Angband has been. You still have as ever,” and the corners of his mouth curled up into a faint sneer. “Your faithful servants.”

“And have you all been quite faithful?” Morgoth asked, a laugh in his voice again as Sauron bent down to light another cigarette. Before he could raise it to his mouth, Morgoth plucked it from his hands and he dutifully lit a second one.

“Yes,” Sauron said after he took a long drag of smoke. “We have all been ever faithful. However, it has been a long time and we are all growing impatient. We have obeyed your gag order this long, if you return and refuse to act, you may lose your control.”

“Ah,” Morgoth said, grabbing his chin again and Sauron tensed, golden red hair catching the streetlights. “But I could hardly have any of my trusted servants trying to take my place while I was gone. Imagine if they had refused to give up power when I came back? After all, they claim all power is addicting.”

“So while you wallowed, you made us do the same,” Sauron said, a hint of bitterness inching into his voice and Morgoth laughed, slamming their mouths together as Sauron tensed.

“Yes,” Morgoth agreed, already walking away while Sauron obviously pulled himself back together behind his back. “But I have returned now, and am ready to take that mantle back up.”

“Good,” Sauron said, running fingers through his hair and brushing his chin as if to wipe away the memory of Morgoth’s touch before he followed him into the darkness.

-0-

Maedhros startled when a figure slid into the table across from him. He only took enough time to register out of the corner of his eyes that it was not one of his brothers before he started talking. “I am sorry,” he started. “But I am—”

“What is this seat taken?” the person asked and Maedhros blinked, not recognizing the voice and he stopped completely to be confronted with the man he saw walk past the window most mornings sitting across from him and grinning.

“No?” he offered, brain trying to catch up with the new development and his reward as an even wider grin. Something about that smile jogged his memory. “Have we met?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” the man across from him said, flagging down a waiter to bring him a drink and Maedhros leaned back in the chair, only vaguely aware of the corner club they were in. “But, I see you every morning, sitting in the bakery.”

“Yes,” Maedhros agreed. “I see you sometimes too, through the window.”

The man stared at him, and even in the dim light, Maedhros thought color was rising on his cheekbones. “Anyway,” he cleared his throat. “I… have been opening and stupidly staring and my sister has been threatening to throw me bodily inside the bakery if I don’t do something about it.”

“We aren’t in the bakery now,” Maedhros said.

“No,” the man agreed. “Seeing you sitting here alone outside of your normal place finally gave me the push to approach you.”

“And why,” Maedhros said, swallowing past his suddenly dry throat. “Would you wish to approach me?”

The man’s eyes were glittering in the dim light and his grin made Maedhros’ throat tighten. “Because I’ve been staring at you,” he said as if the why was self evident. “My name is Fingon.”

“Maedhros,” Maedhros returned reflexively, still distracted by his smile, by the golden ribbon twined into the edge of the other’s hair and around the brim of his hat. “Why were you staring at me?”

When Fingon leaned forward, elbows on the table, Maedhros found himself leaning forward too. “Because you, my friend, are gorgeous.”

Maedhros blinked at him, confused and a little hurt at what he presumed to be a joke. “No, really,” he started and Fingon just leaned closer.

“Really,” he said, and it was daring and stupid and Maedhros stared at him in total shock. “I suppose you could take that any way you wanted.”

“Any way?” Maedhros returned, and his fingers he realized were shaking slightly, so he gripped them on the edge of the table. “That’s daring.”

Fingon kept smiling as he shrugged, a tiny roll of his shoulders.

“Are you even from around here?” Maedhros asked, because the features looked right to be in Little Beleriand, but he could not recall seeing the other man before recently.

“I grew up here,” Fingon said. “Went away for a long time. Whole long story, won’t bore you.”

“Wait,” Maedhros paused, squinting at him. “I think I remember you.”

“What?” Fingon blinked. “You do?”

“There was this boy,” Maedhros explained. “Who used to always follow me around, asking questions, asking to be picked up so he could see higher. He disappeared though. Looked a lot like you.”

“Ah,” Fingon said, and there was definitely color rising on his cheeks now. “That, well, that well may have been me, I have on authority I was a very bossy child, and,” he trailed off, looking at Maedhros’ hair. “Well. I always have been drawn to red heads.”

“Have you?” Maedhros said, and a hint of warmth entered his voice.

“Yes,” Fingon said, meeting his eyes and Maedhros was not used to strangers being so forthright. Instead of leaning back, or leaving, he tilted forward, closer to Fingon’s space across the tiny table.

“And in what way are you drawn to red heads?” he asked, Fingon’s eyes lighting up.

“Any way possible,” Fingon returned.

-0-

Running a hand over his hair, Oromë carefully put his hat back over his hair, steps heavy as he walked through the alley. There had been reports coming in of a commotion going on earlier that night, and he was tired of following up leads. Sighing in frustration, he almost stepped out of the alley when a form pressed suddenly up against his back, a knife glinting near his throat. Oromë froze,  self defense instincts kicking in.

“I thought I told you not to follow me,” a voice breathed in his ear and Oromë shivered.

“I am not following you,” he said. “I am working. You, I suppose, happened to be in the area.”

“Yeah?” Celegorm asked, still pressed against his back and Oromë was all too aware of his warmth. “That excuse the one you always use?”

“No,” Oromë said and he moved abruptly, breaking Celegorm’s hold and stepping away. Celegorm considered him in the lights of the alley, sheathing his knife and Oromë took note of where he hid it under his clothes. “I am not certain I need to use an excuse for my whereabouts.”

“You have to admit,” Celegorm said, arms crossed over his chest and posture cocky. “That you have been around a lot lately.”

“I could say the same of you,” Oromë returned and he took a step back when suddenly Celegorm lunged at him. Oromë tensed, falling into a fighting stance as Celegorm rammed in to him, driving him back against the wall. He could feel the brick digging in to his back, and he couldn’t catch his breath, with Celegorm this close that Oromë could smell him. 

“Why have you been around?” Celegorm asked.

“Why have you?” Oromë returned, at the ready to try and shove the other away and twist free of his grip.

Celegorm’s eyes were dark and he leaned up, standing on his toes to press his mouth against Oromë’s ear. “Surely you aren’t naïve enough not to know,” he whispered and Oromë shivered. 

“Seducing a cop,” he said, Celegorm’s hands twisted up in the front of his uniform. “Smart move.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Celegorm said, mouth still against his ear. “If I hadn’t seen the way you watch me. All week, every time I turn around, there you are, watching me. I can feel your gaze on me like a hand, pressing down against my skin.”

“I could,” Oromë started and had to start over when Celegorm bit his ear. “I could just be trying to catch you,” he said. “There are rumors about you. How you spend your nights.” His mind blanked out again when Celegorm’s hands smoothed down his front, hesitating a moment at his waist before tearing at his pants.

“Yeah,” Celegorm agreed, as if he was unaffected. He dragged his teeth along Oromë’s throat, and Oromë jumped. “That would be quite the coup for you, wouldn’t it? Getting one of Fëanor’s sons on something solid, on something you can keep them with? Course, you’d have to admit you let him suck you off in an alley,” and Oromë groaned, the sound dragged out of his throat. Celegorm leaned back enough to look at his face, eyes almost totally black. “But that isn’t what this is about,” he said, and his voice only shook slightly in doubt before he dropped to his knees.

“You’re confident,” Oromë said. “Do you even know what my name is?”

Celegorm shrugged, smile triumphant and wild as he looked back up at Oromë, hands already dragging his pants down far enough for him to reach Oromë’s cock. “Doesn’t matter. Knew you wanted this,” he said, breath brushing Oromë’s already erect cock and Oromë covered his mouth with his own hand, his other one only managing to brace against the wall before Celegorm’s mouth was where his breath had been moments before.

Oromë was lost.

Celegorm shifted his knees between Oromë’s legs, pushing them further apart and one of his hands held Oromë’s hip while the other wrapped around the base of his cock.

“You’ve done this before,” Oromë said, around the fingers of his hand, and it was not a question. Celegorm smiled up at him, dim street lights catching his hair.

“You know I would never answer that,” he said, sinking back down and Oromë groaned, head thudding back painfully against the wall. Oromë dropped his free hand down to Celegorm’s hair, fingers twisting around the pale hair and pulling several strands out. Celegorm gasped in shock before he let out a long, heartfelt groan and Oromë felt like no air was getting into his lungs anymore.

It was over shockingly, embarrassingly fast because Oromë had felt overwhelmed since he heard Celegorm’s voice in his ear. When he came with a muffled shout, Celegorm only tilted his head back and met Oromë’s eyes.

Oromë’s head hit the wall painfully again as he gathered up his frayed senses. He finally registered that Celegorm was still on his knees, panting into Oromë’s hip and making tiny desperate shifting motions.

“Are you touching yourself?” Oromë rumbled, voice wrecked and not quite a question. Celegorm whimpered, pressing his face tighter into Oromë’s hip. “Stop,” Oromë said, a clear command and Celegorm froze, a whine escaping him.

Oromë dropped his eyes to see Celegorm on his knees, mouth wide, red and swollen and he could make out the shape of Celegorm’s hand down his own pants. The groan felt like it had been pulled out of Oromë as he hauled Celegorm up, turning them to shove him up against the wall. For the first time there was a flicker of actual fear in Celegorm’s eyes.

Oromë tried not to fell a thrill when Celegorm had to hilt his chin back to meet his eyes. Instead, he shipped his hand down, trailing across Celegorm’s stomach and feeling the skin jump beneath his fingers. He pushed Celegorm’s pants down enough to touch him, and it had been too long since Oromë held another man’s cock in his hands. He lost himself to exploring it, learning the texture and feel of it as Ceelgorm dropped his head to Oromë’s shoulder, panting hotly there. His dry hand came up to grip Oromë’s shoulder, his other hand sneaking below his untucked shirt to slide hot along his waist to his spine.  

Burying his face in Celegorm’s hair, Oromë bit back the words he wanted to say about how beautiful the man falling apart in his arms was, how much he had missed the feel of another body pressed against his own. Instead, he listened to the way Celegorm’s breath caught, hitching gasps and moans and Oromë realized Celegorm was actually biting the fabric at his shoulder, teeth scrapping along his skin even through the uniform just as Celegorm moaned long and filthy into his ear and shook as he came.

Oromë withdrew his hand, Celegorm blinking at him with a dazed expression. His face completely blanked when Oromë held his hand in front of his face and started licking Celegorm’s seed off his own fingers.

“Holy fuck,” Celegorm groaned, keeping his eyes on Oromë as long as he could before he closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the wall, shaking and panting open mouthed, hand still underneath Oromë’s shirt.

Before Oromë could tell himself not to, he was sliding his hand around the back of Celegorm’s neck—entirely clean yet—and dragged him into an open mouth kiss. He swallowed Celegorm’s gasp as well as the following moan, felling it vibrate through him where they were pressed together, pants still hanging open.

He could taste himself on Celegorm’s tongue, and figured the opposite must be true as well.

Finally, he drew back, Celegorm’s pants still against his lips. He felt renewed arousal burn through his veins as he took a step back, sliding his hand from the back of Celegorm’s neck to his cheek, fingers lingering on his open lips before dropping his hands. Taking another step back, he tugged his pants up, redoing them quickly while Celegorm sprawled against the wall, watching him. Wariness entered Celegorm’s pose again as Oromë brushed down the shoulder of his uniform.

“Will you be alright getting home?” he asked suddenly and Celegorm startled.

“What?”

Oromë hesitated before stepped forward again, redoing Celegorm’s pants for him and noticing with a jolt of terror and more desire that he had gotten some of Celegorm’s own cum in his hair. Celegorm meanwhile stared at him like Oromë was a strange breed of creature he had never seen before.

Oromë met his eyes from where they were standing too close again. “You look a little dazed,” he said, and Celegorm’s face snapped into a scowl. “Will you get home alright?”

“I can take care of myself,” Celegorm said. “Don’t worry about me, copper,” he added, sliding his hands into Oromë’s hair and kissing him, hot and open mouthed. Oromë wanting nothing more than to slam him back into the wall and drop to his knees just to see Celegorm fall apart again.

“I’ll be fine,” Celegorm said, pulling back with dark eyes before slipping past Oromë and toward the mouth of the alley. He started to saunter away, in complete control of himself and Oromë felt himself tilting toward him, wondering what his bare skin felt like.

“Your hat,” he said instead, because it had been knocked off at some point and Celegorm’s fair hair was wild. “You should find your hat.”

Celegorm hesitated, before scanning the alley. Swooping down, he pulled the hat on over his hair and with one last grin he was at the alley mouth. “You shouldn’t follow me,” he said, cocky and Oromë was shaking where he stood.

“Shouldn’t I?” he asked and Celegorm stared at him before he ducked away and was gone.

Leaning against the wall, Oromë ran a hand over his face, cursing himself and the bright boy that had been there moments before.


	4. Chapter 4

“What is in your hair?” Curufin asked, looking up when Celegorm staggered inside, trying to keep from laughing or throwing up. He had spent the walk home alternating between the two feelings, on one hand feeling light and like he could fly because sex often made him feel like that, and he had been watching the dark skinned man for what felt to him like such a long time. The other hand because every time he thought about the way the man had gently redone his pants, and all but demanded he be allowed to give Celegorm pleasure in return, and the way he had dragged their mouths together, slow and filthy, Celegorm wanted to throw up because those actions had nothing to with sex or back alley passion.

“What?” he asked, feeling stupid as he yanked his thoughts back to his brother, who stared at him through narrowed eyes.

“Your hair,” Curufin repeated. “It’s filthy in the back, what did you do?”

Celegorm frowned, hand wandering to the back of his hair and feeling something dried there. Abruptly he remembered the hand sliding back around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair as the cop leaned in for that kiss and he blanked out, even knowing his brother was watching, at the memory.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I must have gotten something on it from the wall.”

Curufin sighed, sitting back down. “Do you even know the name of this one?” he asked and Celegorm laughed, the sound feeling wrong in his chest.

“No,” he said, breezing past. “Do I ever?”

“You should not be so reckless,” Curufin snapped and Celegorm halted in the middle of their living room before turning back around.

“And do you get to be one to talk just because you go to Finrod in the dark of the night?” Celegorm asked. “Because you go to the same place it makes you any more safe?”

“At least I know his name,” Curufin said, going still. “At least I know he’s not working for Morgoth or Fingolfin, or a police informant.”

Celegorm could feel another laugh bubble up in his chest. “Is this about Morgoth?” he asked instead of pursuing the last words his brother said. “Everyone’s been acting so damned tense since he’s gotten out. God damn it, he’s been in prison for years.”

“Three years is not so very long,” Curufin said.

“Sure, whatever,” Celegorm waved a hand. “But he was stupid enough to get caught, and now he’s out, older and slower than ever. He’s barely done a damn thing, would everyone just relax?”

“Barely done a damn thing?” Curufin sneered. “Last time he killed our grandfather and burned down our house, or have you forgotten?”

“No,” Celegorm snapped. “I have not forgotten. The point stands that since he’s gotten out no one has heard from him.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Curufin hissed.

Celegorm threw his hands up. “And what does this have to do with me tonight?”

“Because having back alley sex with strangers whose names you do not know is dangerous enough as it is, currently it’s suicidal.”

Rolling his eyes up to the ceiling, Celegorm shook his head slightly. “He was not involved with Morgoth, I can promise that much.”

“And how could you possibly know, if you do not even know his name?” Curufin demanded.

Celegorm waved a hand, already turning around. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said, ignoring Curufin’s sneer.

“Of course you are,” he said and Celegorm slammed the door. Leaning against the door, he found himself fingering the strands of his hair again, trying not to shake or sigh. Swearing at himself, he pushed himself off the door, stripping quickly.

“I got him out of my system,” he told the tiles, and almost punched them because it felt easier then the churning in his chest.

He barely hated himself the next night when he went back to the same dance club he had learned the other frequented, when he had been following him and pretending he had not been.

“What’s your name?” he asked, not even pretending to look at any of the girls as they danced around the floor as he slid into the chair across the table from the police officer.

Inscrutable eyes looked back at him. “I thought Noldorians never answered questions, Celegorm.”

Celegorm held his shoulders very still, though he still felt the shiver go down his spine at hearing that voice speak his name. “Yeah, but that does not mean we cannot ask them. Besides, it hardly seems fair, does it?”

The officer smiled faintly, and Celegorm had to resist the urge to lean forward. “Oromë,” he said finally and Celegorm grinned.

“What, no last name, Oromë?”  and he could swear Oromë’s pupils widened, eating more of his iris.

“No,” Oromë said and he rose, Celegorm unconsciously rising with him. “I’m certain you will find a way to live without knowing it.”

“Yes,” Celegorm said, distracted by the curve of Oromë’s mouth forming the words and he had his legs wrapped around Oromë’s waist with his back pressed against the alley wall before he even remembered this was only supposed to be one time.

-0-

Fëanor slid into the seat next to Fingolfin. “You said you wished to talk? I assume about Morgoth.”

“Of course,” Fingolfin said, rising his glass slightly toward Fëanor. “Nice to see you too, brother.”

Fëanor managed to meet his gaze levelly and not do something so immature as to roll his eyes.  “Please. What point is there in pleasantries?”

Fingolfin shrugged, swirling his glass for a moment before meeting Fëanor’s eyes. “Last night my men were ambushed. The only one who survived said he saw Gothmog there.”

Swearing, Fëanor gestured for a drink to be brought to him as well. “Which means Glaurung was probably there too.”

“If he is still alive, yes,” Fingolfin agreed.

“I had hoped they might have all died,” Fëanor snarled. “They have not been heard from in three years. Perhaps Sauron had killed Gothmog in some power struggle after Morgoth went to jail, and then had to kill Glaurung in turn, and had been perhaps shot down by the police when he resisted arrest as he no longer had Morgoth to protect him.”

Fingolfin arched his brows. “You constructed quite a story there. You must have known none of it was true.”

“Unlikely,” Fëanor agreed. “But none of them had been heard of in almost four years, since he was arrested and during the trial, and all three years he was in prison.”

“More likely you know he commanded them to stand down and await his return.”

“Yes,” Fëanor agreed, swinging back too much of the bourbon put in front of him at once. It burned down his throat and he smiled faintly. “So Finarfin is not here.”

Fingolfin inclined his head. “No,” he agreed. “He is not.”

“Does he really think if he sticks his head down in the sand, they won’t see him and come after him?” Fëanor snapped.  “If he is blind, they will not make him a target? He’s left himself in plain sight while refusing to turn his head enough to see what is coming. He is an idiot.”

“Do not insult our brother,” Fingolfin snapped. “I may not agree with him either, but it is his choice to make either way.”

Looking at the glass he held for a moment, Fëanor dragged his eyes back up to meet his half-brother’s. “So,” he said finally. “Is this simply a warning…?”

“I thought, in light of recent events,” Fingolfin said with a wry smile. “It would be better to set aside our own difficulties to focus on the larger threat. When Morgoth is gone again I am quite certain we can fall back on old habits and go after each other’s throats.”

Fëanor considered him for a long moment. “Work together?”

“Would it be so impossible?” Fingolfin said and Fëanor could tell he was trying not to shake his head or roll his own eyes. “We were never close as children, even less so as adults, I admit. We have had our differences, and then some. But Morgoth is already moving and we would be stronger together.”

“We survived separately last time,” Fëanor said.

“And less of your sons were involved then,” Fingolfin said and Fëanor tensed. “They are almost all of age now, are they not? Do you not think he would come at you through them?”

“As you are now,” Fëanor snapped. Fingolfin shrugged. “But you are perhaps correct. Have you contacted Finarfin’s children yet, as he himself is too moronic?”

“Yes, actually,” Fingolfin said. “I was meeting Finrod at Nargothrond tomorrow. As well as Galadriel.”

Fëanor arched his brows. “Galadriel? I thought he was in business with the other one, Orodreth.”

Fingolfin chuckled. “I think even he ended up realizing that was foolish.”

Fëanor’s smile was cold. “So you thought to convince me and then take me to meet with Finrod to make sure he would be aware of our alliance, and agree to not fight among ourselves.”

 Fingolfin clicked their glasses together before drowning the last of his and rising. “Did it not work?” he asked, and shrugged back into his heavy coat.

“I suppose it did,” Fëanor said, and his laugh was not amused. “Tomorrow night then?”

“At Nargothrond,” Fingolfin agreed. “Until then, brother.” Fëanor watched his brother go, idly turning the glass he held in his hands before he smiled at the empty space beside him where Fingolfin had been.

-0-

Maedhros squinted at the papers he read as he walked, counting on his height and reputation to keep the street clear in front of him.

He startled abruptly when something dropped on his paper from above. Jumping, he looked around, until he spotted the note on the ground which had slid off the papers and fallen down. He tensed, looking quickly from side to side before leaning down to pick the note up, not quite daring to look up yet.

Unfolding the square of paper, his own papers shoved underneath one arm he frowned.

 _Come to the movies with me_.

Maedhros had been so prepared for a threat or a demand that it took him several long moments to actually process what he read. When he did, he snapped his head up and found Fingon sitting in his shirt sleeves, the top several buttons undone, on the fire escape. His arms were folded on the railing and even from that distance Maedhros could see his grin.

Feeling his face heat, he looked at the scrap paper before looking back up at Fingon and nodded. If possible Fingon’s grin widened before he bounded up, disappearing back into his window and Maedhros stood, waiting on the sidewalk, occasionally looking back at the note.

“I was hoping I would see you pass by today,” Fingon said, breezing out the door moments later, hat firmly on his head and buttoned up in a jacket and coat. Maedhros tried to convince himself he was not disappointed.

“Were you waiting?” he asked, voice quiet.

“Not directly,” Fingon brushed off. “But I am glad you came when you did.”

Maedhros did not say that Fingon’s method of contact had almost stopped his heart for a few moments, instead hesitantly returning the smile. “I guess I am too.”

“You guess?” Fingon teased, riffling through his wallet for a moment.

“Well, I am,” Maedhros amended. “It’s been a few days.”

“I waved at you through the window,” Fingon said and Maedhros felt his cheeks turn red and cursed his skin.

“Yes, but you did not stop in,” Maedhros said.

“Would you like me too?” Fingon asked, finally looking up and meeting his eyes. Maedhros would have stumbled if they had been walking.

“It, I would not mind,” he said finally. “If you wanted to. Some mornings. Where are we going?” he asked, to cover up his verbal floundering.

“To a movie,” Fingon said. “Ah. Good. I have enough for bus fare both ways.”

“Bus fare?” Maedhros asked, feeling alarmed. “Not the theater in Little Beleriand then?”

Fingon scoffed, folding his arms and cocking his head back to meet Maedhros’ eyes. “Certainly not. That place is barely even a hole in the wall. No. We should go to one of the movie palaces down town. They are far superior.”

“And more expensive, and also,” Maedhros paused. “It can be more dangerous.”

 “Because we’re Noldorian?” Fingon asked, meeting his eyes and grinning. “We’ll sit in the back, promise. Now come on, there’s a new flick I want to go see.”

“Does it have beautiful dames and dashing heroes?” Maedhros asked, wry and Fingon laughed, the sound bright and clear. Maedhros wanted to wrap his hands around that sound and hold.

“Don’t they all?” he asked, and linked his arm through Maedhros’, making him almost stumble. “Now come along. You did agree to this afterall.”

“Before hearing all the details,” Maedhros protested and let himself be led.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this whole thing three times and it was becoming "post or die" time.

“Are you certain everything is prepared?” Finrod asked, and Galadriel barely looked over at him.

“You have asked that at least five times, already,” she said. “The answer remains the same.”

He sighed, tangling his fingers up with his necklace, stilling when she arched a brow at him. “Damnation,” he muttered, forcibly dropping his hand and clasping both of them behind his back.

“You are nervous,” Galadriel murmured, eyes constantly scanning the room though she barely appeared to move.

“How often do Fingolfin and Fëanor deign to be in the same room?” Finrod returned. “Let alone come together, on purpose.”

“They are worried,” she said.

“Aren’t you?” Finrod asked, eyes sliding over and their eyes met. For a moment they looked at each other, before they both smiled.

Finrod caught a flash of black hair out of the corner of his eye, turning slightly, already thinking Fëanor stood there. “Ah,” he said, when he had turned his head enough to see it was Curufin who stood there, brows arched.

“That is not the usual smile I receive,” he remarked.

“No,” Finrod agreed. “I admit, I was expecting your father.”

Curufin’s eyes widened, his relaxed and arrogant stance shifting into something more alert. “What? My father? Why is he coming here?”

“He will probably ask you the same question,” Galadriel said, running her hand across Finrod’s back as she slipped away, speaking quietly to Bëor about making sure the table already prepared in the corner would have another chair.

Feeling the corners of his mouth twitch, Finrod turned back to Curufin. “You chose a singularly interesting night to arrive.”

Curufin stared at him, caught between amusement and annoyance. “Yes, apparently I did. I did not expect to walk in on a meeting of this magnitude.”

“But since you are here, you are going to take advantage of it, are you not?” Finrod asked.

“I will certainly not leave now,” Curufin said. “Not if both my father and Fingolfin are coming to you.”

“Ah, he is your uncle too,” Finrod said quietly and Curufin waved a hand, cutting him off in annoyance. “At any rate,” and he stepped closer, Curufin tilting his to meet his eyes. “It will not be what you came here for.”

“You say that as if I cannot have both,” Curufin said quietly.

“If you can find a reason to tell your father you wish to stay past his leaving,” Finrod murmured as he saw Fëanor step down off the stairs, Fingolfin slightly behind his shoulder. “Ah. The first reaction, always my favorite,” he added, seeing Fëanor’s eyes widen slightly as he looked around.

“Because you know how to put on a show,” Curufin said and Finrod trailed his fingers down Curufin’s spine as he moved away, feeling him shudder before he was striding across the club, arms outspread and Curufin slightly behind him. “Uncles. It is good to see you.”

“We are here for business, not pleasure,” Fëanor said and noticing Curufin. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard rumors,” Curufin said, a smooth lie. “That such a meeting might be taking place. Besides, there is no better place in town to get a drink.”

“I was not aware you frequented here enough to know that,” Fëanor remarked.

“Ah,” Fingolfin said. “It appears everyone has a second except me.”

“You need no second here with my sister and I,” Finrod said, holding out a hand to where Galadriel stood next to the table that had been prepared. It allowed a view of the floor and exit without being in the middle of the action on the floor, and was secluded enough even the band’s music was muted.

“Where is your brother?” Fëanor asked as he followed Finrod with Curufin at his side.

“We are not tied at the hip,” Curufin replied. “As far as I know, he is simply out.”

-0-

Oromë stilled when he caught the glimpse of golden white hair underneath the street lamps. For a moment he allowed himself simply to look at where Celegorm sprawled against the wall, smoking quietly and looking oddly pensive.

“Standing so close to the station,” he said, and Celegorm startled. “Is stupid, even for you.”

“I was waiting,” Celegorm said, flicking the end of his cigarette. “Besides, no one would assume what I was waiting for,” and even from where he stood, Oromë could see his eyes darken. He itched to reach out and touch, the urge he had given in to so many times the past couple of weeks. He found Celegorm in more and more obvious places and it was starting to worry him, how willing to accept that he was.

“I am not in the mood tonight,” he said instead, starting to walk again, intending to brush past the other.

Except Celegorm’s free hand darted out and caught him, cigarette still in his other hand. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I am not in the mood,” Oromë repeated. “I do not desire to play your games tonight, find someone else.”

Celegorm stilled, and Oromë could smell the smoke sticking to him. “What if I want to play with you?” he asked, inching closer and Oromë yanked his arm away. “What the hell? What happened?”

“Did something have to happen?” Oromë asked.

“Was it about that murder I saw in the papers today?” Celegorm asked ,too shrewdly and Oromë let out a long breath. “Looks like Sauron’s back. That can’t be a nice feeling, huh?”

Oromë scowled. “We have no proof it was Sauron. Or that any of the murders those years ago were his either. We never proved it was him and likely will not now either.”

“You joking?” Celegorm asked. “Everyone and their kid brother knows it was him, and everyone know it is not too, since his hell damned master just got out of prison.” Oromë stilled, staring at Celegorm.

“His master?” he repeated.

“Don’t tell me the cops have not figured that one out too,” Celegorm scoffed. “Morgoth is his master, through and through. For fuck’s sake, the man went to ground when his master went to prison and now is back. If that is not slavish devotion I do not know what is.”

“You throw such words around,” Oromë said quietly.

Celegorm shrugged, always too hasty with his words. “This would not be such a problem if his family would get their act together and actually follow their own rhetoric of keeping the streets safe. Sorry, we mean only safe from everyone not related to us.”

Oromë tensed, and they were still standing too close, Celegorm’s hand having dropped off Oromë’s arm and smoke still curling between them. “Do not,” he said, voice quiet and low.

“What?” Celegorm frowned. “You think Manwë is doing a good job or something? What about your boss? Did he not marry into the family or some such?”

“Quit while you are still ahead,” Oromë said, voice still soft.

“What? You the bastard child of their old slaves or something?” Celegorm snapped and barely had a moment to regret the words before Oromë lifted him off the ground and slammed him into the wall. A sound caught between a gasp and a moan left him as he braced his hands on Oromë’s arms, dropping the cigarette. 

“Do not insult my family,” Oromë said, almost a growl.

“Oh,” Celegorm managed, fingers tightening on Oromë’s arms. “Oh.”

“Incidentally,” Oromë continued, in the same low but even tone. “You are not so far off with that question. But Manwë’s father took us in and made us part of the family too, and I will not have you insulting them.”

“You’re Morgoth’s cousin?” Celegorm confirmed, squirming slightly where he was still held against the wall, but not trying to break away.

“Yes,” Oromë said.

 “Hell,” Celegorm murmured, no breath or force behind the word. “Okay. Family loyalty, I get it.” His hands were still on Oromë’s arms and he had to stop himself from stroking them up to his shoulders and holding on. His toes were barely able to touch the ground and he tried to focus on the rage on Oromë’s face, not the way a shiver worked up his spine whenever he thought about their positions.

“Do you?” Oromë asked, voice low and Celegorm’s fingers tightened on his arm.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes wide and Oromë stepped back, letting Celegorm slide down the wall and back onto his feet.

Oromë’s eyes were focused on his mouth for a long moment before they flickered back up. “You should know better than to be so close to the police station,” he said instead, wrestling his anger back under control and Celegorm wanted to curse at him.

“Yeah?” he asked, already too cocky again. “Then where should I wait for you?”

Oromë froze, and they still stood too close. Hesitantly, Oromë reached a hand up to cover the top of Celegorm’s shirt, fingers warm against his throat. “Meeting in one place consistently would be foolish,” he murmured.

Celegorm felt the skin of his throat jump. “Then the dance club, tomorrow.”

“And the next night?” Oromë asked, realizing he meant to say _time_ and came out with _night_ after the words had already left him.

“Figure it out then,” Celegorm said. “Each time, just figure out the next one then.”

“That will require talking,” Oromë said, wryly.

Celegorm grinned, feeling his stomach curl. “Yeah. Think we cannot manage it?”

Humming, Oromë stepped back again, putting space between them and Celegorm tried not to reach out or feel disappointed. “Perhaps,” he said finally. “Good night, Celegorm.”

Celegorm opened his mouth, offended at first before he closed it again. “Good night,” he mumbled finally, not looking at Oromë or watching as he walked away.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath when Oromë had disappeared, letting his head thud back against the wall. Lighting another cigarette, he watched the smoke curl and wished that his brother would not always keep accidentally being right.

“There is no way he is connected to Morgoth!” Celegorm mocked himself under his breath before swearing.

As long as he focused on that, he did not have to think about the quiet almost promise he made, to actually plan on meeting Oromë the next night.

-0-

Curufin found his mind totally blank when it came to making an excuse to stay behind at the end of the night. His mind whirled with everyone they had talked about, the measures the three sides had agreed to in order to protect themselves from Morgoth’s renewed reach.

At one point, he remembered Finrod’s eyes flickering over to him in suppressed rage when he backed his father up on not opening up the borders between the Noldorians all that much.

“We have agreed to help each other in order to survive,” he had said, perfectly calm even when Finrod’s attention made his breath want to catch and his fingers twitch. “Not to merge completely.”

“Perhaps that would not be such a bad thing,” Finrod had returned, and no one except Galadriel noticed how hotly he said it, compared to his usual and calm, almost breezy tone.

Now Curufin itched to turn away from his father and uncle and run back to where he wondered if Finrod was waiting.

“I do not understand still,” Fëanor was saying. “Why he left business with his brother, to go into business with his sister. She barely spoke all night.”

Fingolfin actually laughed, for his children had always been closer with Finarfin’s children then Fëanor’s had ever been. “You will see,” was all he said, Fëanor scowling at him.

Curufin stopped, finally realizing an excuse. “I left my lighter there,” he said abruptly, Fëanor and Fingolfin both turning in surprise to him.

“Is it important enough to go back for?” Fëanor asked.

“I arrived there by myself with no problem and will see myself home safely,” he returned, even though his father frowned at him. “Father, I will see you and mother in a few days. Uncle,” and he gave Fingolfin a curt nod before turning on his heel and walking away.

He almost ran but forced himself to go more slowly, meandering back through the streets.

“The club is closed,” the bouncer started to say and come to a stop. “Ah. Well. Go on ahead then.”

Curufin barely spared him a glance, his need crawling under his skin as he took the stairs down.

Finrod sat at the table across from Galadriel, idly flicking Curufin’s lighter open and closed. His eyes darted over, lazy and clearly expecting it to be the bouncer coming in to tell him the door was closed. Instead he stopped, mouth barely dropping open to see Curufin back.

Sitting at a table nearby, Bëor tensed, and like usual Curufin had to suppress a smile at the jealousy and distrust so obvious in the man’s posture.

“That is mine,” he said, plucking the lighter from Finrod’s hand, their fingers tangling for a moment.

“Yes, it is,” Finrod agreed faintly, a smile playing across his features. “I am glad you came back for it.”

“Yes,” Curufin agreed, returning the smile with a tight smirk. “I do not like being without.”

“I would imagine not,” Finrod said, rising in one long graceful motion.

Galadriel rose as well, leaning over to press a kiss to Finrod’s cheek, her hand lingering on his shoulder. “We will talk more in the morning,” she said, barely even needing to notice the way they were looking at each other. “Good night, Curufin.”

“Galadriel,” he said, not taking his eyes away from Finrod.

“Good night sister,” Finrod said, finally breaking eye contact as she drifted across the floor and up the stairs. “So you came back for your lighter?”

Curufin snarled, curling his fingers in Finrod’s necklace and dragging him forward, slamming their mouths together. Finrod hummed, hands coming up to rest on Curufin’s hips, and he obligingly tilted his head down.

“Come back to the rooms at least,” Finrod said and Curufin tried not to let himself smirk over at Bëor, who sat frozen staring at them.

“Alright,” Curufin agreed, but curled himself around Finrod, hands on his back and mouth pressed against his ear, feeling Finrod shudder. “Tonight, I want to strip you out of everything you wear except the necklace, and ride you until you cannot control your voice anymore.”

“You know,” Finrod murmured, disentangling himself from Curufin and grabbing his hand. “You would not be nearly so desperate if you bothered to come here more regularly.”

“Is that a request?” Curufin asked, trailing after Finrod, Bëor stubbornly setting his jaw and looking away.

“No,” Finrod said and once they were in the corridor beyond the main floor, Curufin slammed him into the wall, biting his throat to feel the moan vibrate through his mouth. “Simply that you might,” and he trailed off with a gasp. “Not need to lie to your father.”

“I did not lie,” Curufin said. “You know I forgot my lighter.”

“Yes,” Finrod said, smoothing his fingers through Curufin’s black hair. “Which is the _only_ reason you came back.”

Curufin silenced him with a biting kiss, feeling Finrod’s chuckle turn into a moan against his chest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by a two day migraine because if I'm going to be in head splitting pain no matter what I do, I might as well write.

The theater was mostly empty, which is why Maedhros leaned over to where Fingon was smoking quietly beside him. “This is a very strange movie,” he whispered.

“Course it’s strange,” Fingon murmured back, not taking his eyes from the screen. “The play was strange.”

Maedhros paused, eyes flickering between the screen and Fingon. “I thought it was based on a biblical story?” he asked, still keeping his voice low.

Expression amused, Fingon turned somewhat in his seat, leaning over to whisper in Maedhros’ ear, making him freeze. “Yes. Well, the play was based on the biblical story, and this movie is based on the specific play. Even the history of the play is strange.”

“How so?” Maedhros asked, almost no voice behind the words but Fingon seemed to hear him anyway.

“Well, it was written in French, translated to English by Wilde’s lover, and banned from England,” Fingon said, mouth still close to Maedhros’ ear. “So ironically it was first performed in Paris.”

“Who wrote it?” Maedhros asked, barely having caught the name.

“Wilde?” Fingon returned. “He was an Irish-English playwright, went to prison for indecent homosexuality,” and there was a wry twist to the way he finished the sentence, Maedhros’ head whipping around to stare at him. Fingon was still half smiling, smoke curling from his hand. “Rumor has it the cast and crew of this movie are all too, in honor of him.”

“What?” Maedhros asked, eyes wide and Fingon was watching him too closely.

“Does that bother you?”

“It is just a very strange film,” Maedhros said, voice low and shaky and Fingon inched forward slightly. Maedhros’ eyes moved quickly back over the theater, where they sat in the back and none of the other occupants were looking at them. Even though it was still midday, the theater was practically empty. Swallowing, he looked back at Fingon, meeting his eyes.

“You did not answer the question,” Fingon said very quietly and Maedhros made a quiet sound at the back of his throat.

“No,” he agreed. “I did not. I do not mind,” and he could see Fingon’s pupils widen, though otherwise neither of them moved.

“Should probably go back to watching the movie then?” Fingon offered after Maedhros found himself counting his heartbeats without moving. When he still did not move, Fingon brought his almost burned down cigarette to his mouth, and his hand shook slightly. It was the last fact that had Maedhros looking around the theater again to make sure no one was watching before leaning forward closer.

“Hey now,” Fingon murmured, eyes darting around Maedhros’ face.

“I have not been misreading this,” Maedhros said, more a statement then question and he felt his stomach flip when the corner of Fingon’s mouth hitched up.

“No,” he breathed and Maedhros fell forward the last distance, only their mouths touching and he took Fingon’s startled breath deep into his own lungs.

The first kiss was brief, fumbled and chaste in the dark. When Maedhros started to draw back, Fingon’s hand shot out to catch the back of his head. They both turned, scanning the room before Fingon pulled him back in, kissing Maedhros with his mouth open, letting him feel the heat and wetness of his mouth but not pressing any further before he drew back.

They stared at each other in the flickering light from the screen for a moment before Maedhros turned back to the screen, feeling his cheeks heat.

“Oh,” Fingon laughed faintly beside him and Maedhros heard him turn and look back at the screen too. He barely registered what happened in the rest of the film, too aware of Fingon sitting beside him and nothing beyond the heat of his arm pressed almost against Maedhros’ mattered.

“Come on,” Fingon murmured when it finally ended and Maedhros almost bolted out of his seat, hearing Fingon’s delighted laugh as he almost ran for the door.

“Come back with me,” Fingon said, curling his fingers around Maedhros’ waist when they stopped at the bus stop. Maedhros almost wanted to walk all the way home, because standing still felt like torture.

“What?” he asked, feeling stupid, as if he was missing a part of a puzzle.

“To my apartment,” Fingon said, and he kept smiling. The street was far from deserted, and Fingon got a few looks for his flashy hat and classical looks and Maedhros wanted to kiss him again. “To talk,” Fingon added.

“I will not be able to stay long,” Maedhros said. “My family is having dinner tonight.”

“Close family then?” Fingon asked, still teasing and Maedhros frowned.

“My father insists we all get together at least once a week,” he said, vague confusion leaking into his voice. “Or mother insists, I can never quite tell. It is probably both of them.”

“Your father sounds charmingly domestic,” Fingon drawled and Maedhros stared at him, trying to apply those words anywhere near his image of his father.

“You,” he started, hesitant. “You know who my father is, right?”

Fingon hummed and looked over. “No. Should I?”

Maedhros stared, the concept that someone did not instantly know he was Fëanor’s oldest son foreign in Little Beleriand. “But,” he said. “Everyone knows I’m Fëanor’s son.”

Freezing, Fingon took several breaths before turning to stare at Maedhros, who waited. “What?”

“Everyone knows that,” Maedhros protested. “Everyone knows our family.”

“Well I did not!” Fingon snapped. “Admittedly that was because I was purposefully trying to ignore that stupid feud between our fathers—” and he abruptly clicked his jaw shut.

“What?” Maedhros managed to repeat. “Our fathers?” and he felt his stomach sink.

“God,” Fingon muttered under his breath. “How stupid—it is not like either of us are not recognizable!” and he gestured a hand in the space between them, motion jerky and angry. “What a cosmic joke. Fëanor and Fingolfin’s sons, being friends with each other and not even knowing.”

“Friends,” Maedhros repeated, remembering the kiss, brief and scared and stupid though it was. “I—how did you not know?” he snapped, wanting to lash out because otherwise he was going to lay down and cry. The bus came and paused for several long moments with its doors open before Fingon turned on his heel and stalked away, Maedhros following. “How did you not figure it out?”

“Because I was gone!” Fingon snapped, voice rising about the murmur of the street. Several people stopped and stared, a few even pointing and whispering. Maedhros could hear at least one statement about Noldorians and he pushed on after Fingon. “Because father sent me away for school for years and since I came back I have been avoiding everything to do with Fëanor or his sons. I had—have!—no wish to get involved in the petty squabbles of my, our, extended family.”

“They are not petty squabbles,” Maedhros protested automatically and Fingon stopped walking long enough to glare at him. “They—alright, they may be.”

“I purposefully avoided even thinking about my cousins,” Fingon said, quieter. “But that does not explain you.”

Maedhros swallowed hard, and started walking again so he did not have to meet Fingon’s eyes as they walked. “I watched you,” he said, voice low. “You know I watched you and you watched me. I thought about it, sometimes, why I had not seen you around before, about the cousin I knew had been sent away to school in the old country. I thought it might be connected, but I did not,” and he stopped, looking at his feet and the pavement for several steps. “I did not want to think about it,” he said, so quiet he was not sure Fingon could hear. “I wanted you to be someone else so I told myself you were. I did not ask my father what my cousin’s name was, ignored any mention of him or of someone who wore gold in his hat and said to myself, perhaps it’s an old tradition I simply do not know of.”

“I doubt such a thing as that exists,” Fingon murmured.

Maedhros bit back a laugh that would have edged too close to hysteria. “Probably not. It explains so much, why I remember you as a child and then nothing, nothing for long years.”

They stopped again, staring at each other, Fingon’s face tilted back to meet Maedhros’ eyes.

“Hell,” Fingon muttered. “And damnation.”

Maedhros’ mouth twitched into a smile. “I am sorry.”

“For what?” Fingon frowned, tossing his head back slightly.

“For this,” Maedhros shrugged. “For being your first cousin?”

Fingon’s mouth twisted and he appeared to consider for a moment. “Do you think our father’s fights are likely to be repeated between us?”

Maedhros frowned. “Do you think we will have the same ones?”

“I mean,” Fingon said. “If they fight, do you think we will take the same sides they do and fight each other too?”

Maedhros paused, giving thought to his answer. “No,” he said finally. “I do not think we will have to. I… love my father deeply, and will follow him. But not blindly, and I do not always agree with him on matters of my uncle.”

“Then,” Fingon said, and they were still not alone but for a second, staring at Fingon’s eyes Maedhros felt like they were. “I would still very much like to kiss you,” and the words were faint enough Maedhros almost missed them.

He stared for a shocked moment, Fingon’s expression daring.

“Then,” he said and had to clear his throat. “We should probably keep walking,” and a spark of humor and fierce joy entered Fingon’s eyes before he broke their gaze and turned away. Maedhros trailed after him, seeing the weak winter sun glint off the gold of Fingon’s hat and found his heartbeat falling into rhythm with their steps.

-0-

Fëanor let his gaze wonder around the room, half listening to Amrod and Amras discuss the pros and cons of various handguns. Curufin and Celegorm had arrived last, Celegorm looking distracted and Curufin more at peace with himself then he had been when Fëanor last saw him at Nargothrond.

They were both talking to Maedhros, Celegorm gesturing wildly and then laughing as Maedhros winced at him. Fëanor, when he had not been dwelling on Curufin lying to him, was trying to figure out the expression Maedhros had kept slipping into all night. He looked distracted, worried, practically glowing, and like he was on the verge of laughing all evening.

Fëanor rose, deciding to go over and see what his three sons were talking about when Caranthir appeared at his elbow. “Father,” he greeted.

“Caranthir,” Fëanor replied, drawing his son into a hug and ignoring the way he stiffened. “It is good to see you tonight.”

“You already embraced me at the door,” he said. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes,” Fëanor replied simply. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

Caranthir paused. “Is it true that Fingolfin is concerned enough he offered you the olive branch?” Caranthir asked.

“My intention was to discuss that with all of you after dinner,” Fëanor replied. “But yes.”

For a moment Caranthir considered him before nodding. “Ah.”

Before Fëanor could question him further, the twins latched on to Caranthir, pulling him back in the chair Fëanor had been sitting in. “We feel like you have been avoiding us,” Amras said, bright red hair getting long and Caranthir let out a breath.

“How could I avoid any of you?” Caranthir muttered, Amrod dropping into his lap and Caranthir let out an astonished yelp. “You are too heavy for that,” he hissed and across the room Celegorm laughed, catching himself on the wall.

Fëanor drifted around the room, not trying to make it obvious where he was heading until he was directly behind Curufin’s shoulder. “Curufin,” he greeted and he could see his son’s shoulders tense as he turned around.

“Father,” Curufin greeted, and there was enough wariness in his stance to convince Fëanor he was hiding something, if Fëanor had not already been convinced.

 “Did you get your lighter back?” he asked, tone mild and Curufin’s smile was tight.

“Yes,” he said. “Finrod was kind enough to have kept it when he saw it on the table. It was a gift from Celegorm,” he added, and Celegorm’s head turned over at the mention of his name.

“What?”

“My lighter,” Curufin said. “It was a gift from you.”

“Right,” Celegorm said, smooth and easy. “It was.”

Fëanor could not even tell if he was lying. “You know how Celegorm is about giving gifts,” Curufin said, inclining his head slightly.

“Sorry,” Celegorm said, finally seeming to catch up to the conversation and Fëanor felt fairly certain that meant they had not practiced it beforehand. “You _forgot_ your lighter?”

“I went back for it,” Curufin said, looking at his brother who was scowling.

Fëanor’s brows twitched up as Curufin focused back on him. “However,” he said. “That does not explain what you were doing at Nargothrond to begin with.” Behind Curufin, Celegorm closed his eyes for a moment. “You could not have heard of the meeting that was going to happen, especially as I am quite certain your information network still can hardly compare to Thorondor’s.”

Curufin scowled at the mention of Thorondor and the dig at his own efforts to gather information. “No,” he admitted. “It was mostly luck.”

“You said the drinks there were good,” Fëanor said. “How often exactly do you go there?”

“Not often,” Curufin said, and Celegorm was relaxed and leaning against the wall behind him. “But often enough. It is a good place to gather information, and it is not unwise to be on our cousin’s decent side.”

Fëanor’s mouth twitched. “Be that as it may, I would warn you—”

“Not to get too close to our cousins?” Curufin finished for him, and still standing next to Celegorm, Maedhros’ eyes widened for one horrified second. Celegorm and Fëanor both stared at him.

“What?” Celegorm whispered and Maedhros just shook his head.

“It is unwise,” Fëanor said, focusing back on Curufin. “Their loyalty is not to us, and they put their own needs above ours. We may work with them, but not, I think, in the long term.”

“Because we all have our own motivations and plans, and they might not always align,” Curufin said, sounding tired. “I know, father.”

Fëanor nodded, stepping back and Nerdanel called for them all to get moving to the kitchen, Amrod jumping off Caranthir to another annoyed grunt.

Maglor poked his head around the door, where he and his mother had been setting the table and trading verses in a song back and forth. His eyes settled on Maedhros, as they often did before anyone else. “Is everything alright?” he asked quietly as Maedhros entered the cramped dining room last. Sometimes Fëanor wondered how they had ever managed with all the boys living at home.

“Yes,” Maedhros said quietly, behind him, clapping Maglor on the shoulder and they sat together as they always did, Caranthir pressed against the corner of the table, Amrod and Amras happily sitting on top of each other next to Celegorm and Curufin, and Nerdanel at the opposite end of the table from Fëanor.

“Is that necessary?” he asked the twins, who laughed together, Celegorm chuckling beside them.

“I can still reach the food,” Amrod said, reaching around his twin and Amras shifted slightly to the side, though he was practically still in Amrod’s lap. “Makes the table easier.”

Fëanor paused, before sighing as he reached for the first plate in front of him.

-0-

Curufin followed Celegorm to the door, scowling. “It is early,” he said, the sounds of arguing still coming from the living room.

“You’re the one who told us not to trust them,” Caranthir was saying.

“On the long term,” Fëanor snapped.

Celegorm shrugged, pulling his shoes on and searching for his coats in the mass hanging by the door. “Yes. And I am going out.”

Curufin’s scowl deepened, slamming his hand on the door and making Celegorm stop to stare at him. They were silent, Maedhros’ voice drifting down the hallway. “It is not the end of the world to try and get along with our _family_.”

“Where have you been going?” Curufin hissed.

“That is not always your business you know,” Celegorm returned.

“Our father is worried enough about the situation that he has turned to Fingolfin,” Curufin said, voice pitched quiet and angry. “And you have been disappearing. Where are you going?”

“Out,” Celegorm said, spreading his arms. “I am not putting myself into needless danger. I am not even fighting.”

“Which means you are probably sleeping with every pretty thing that crosses your path,” Curufin said, unimpressed and Celegorm pulled a face at him. “You know, I do not know why you insist on this course of action, when what you want—”

“If you start bringing up my drunk ramblings, I am going to bring up yours,” Celegorm snapped, the threat that always stayed Curufin’s tongue.

Curufin’s eyes narrowed. “You are like to get yourself killed,” he said.

“I will not,” Celegorm said, leaning forward and for a moment Curufin tensed as Celegorm’s hand went to the back of his neck, pulling their foreheads together. “Stop worrying,” and he was out the door. Curufin kicked the door, sounds from the living room still coming through.

“So does that mean we are supposed to stop hijacking their booze shipments?” Amras asked and Curufin’s rage leeched out of him all at once, letting his forehead drop against the door instead.

-0-

Oromë had been trying not to stare at the door all evening, trying to focus on the sway and sound of the music, watching the dancers, the girls in their bright and sparkling dresses, fringe and beads flying everywhere.

Except he still knew the exact moment that Celegorm walked in the door, because he had been staring and waiting for him to arrive.

Celegorm caught a girl, blond and with a round face around the waist, falling into the dance and Oromë’s stomach lurched just to watch them together, the easy way Celegorm moved and the way she fit her body against his. Celegorm, it had occurred to him, would be beautiful with anyone on his arm.

But Celegorm switched partners halfway across the floor, slowly making his way over and Oromë knew where he was coming. He let the music wash over him, and watched Celegorm because he knew where this night would end and jealousy was foolish considering.

When Celegorm finally reached his table, his eyes were bright. “This is the second time I’ve met you here,” he said quietly, flopping into the chair across from Oromë.  

“Next time perhaps it would be better to simply make sure I’ve seen you and not come all the way over,” Oromë said and Celegorm looked at him a stunned moment before he smiled.

“Do you ever dance?” he asked, tilting his head back and his fingers tapped against his thigh to the music.

“No,” Oromë said.

“Ah,” Celegorm allowed, watching Oromë’s face and seeing him there looking at him with such naked desire made Oromë’s fingers ache. “And tonight,” Celegorm continued, his voice dropped. “Not like last night?”

“Not like last night,” Oromë repeated, pushing himself to his feet. “You should probably dance your way back across the floor,” he said. “Do not be obvious who you are following.”

“Sure thing,” Celegorm said and when Oromë reached the door, Celegorm was still sprawled in the chair, watching him leave.

He had barely gotten through half his cigarette outside though when Celegorm appeared, and Oromë swallowed his sharp smile as they sank back into the shadows. “I could still turn you in,” he said, even though he was past the point of ever really considering that as an option anymore.

Celegorm’s arms were around his neck, his knee pressed between Oromë’s and Oromë’s hands were already pulling at his pants. “No, you would not,” Celegorm laughed into his hair, arching his hips and Oromë wished he still knew how to lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salome by Oscar Wilde is actually a play I totally love because the Oscar Wilde class I took in college, unusually, focused on it a lot because it was hooked up to a theatre class (whose premise was to take a text was not widely performed anymore and to make their own short plays based off themes/ideas/interpretations) and so we spent a lot of time talking about it, the themes, the illustrations (Seriously tho the Aubrey Beardsley illustrations are wild) and it's actually a really cool (AND SUPER WEIRD) play. Also. The 1923 movie. Very very weird and the rumor that everyone involved in it was gay is actually a rumor that existed. 
> 
> Anyway. There is totally no significance to finding out Celegorm is a good liar, and that Orome is a bad one. None at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, LiveOakWithMoss asketh, and LiveOakWithMoss recieveth.

Amrod made sure the door was closed and locked before he followed Amras into the kitchen. His twin had already hopped up on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs and the kettle on. Amrod stepped in between his legs, and Amras spread them out to accommodate his brother, one hand braced against the counter and the other fluttering up to his shoulder. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Amrod breathed, before a slight frown appeared. Amras’ hand flicked the furrow between his brows and Amrod tossed his head. “You should not have done that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I did a lot of things tonight, brother, which one is the one you refer to?” Amras asked, leaning back slightly and Amrod tilted forward, nuzzling against the side of Amras’ neck.

 “We are too big to share a chair now,” Amrod said and Amras slid his arm on the counter back, reclining and Amrod kept following him.

“You said we should not act differently,” he said and Amrod’s fingers traced his hipbone. “We have always shared a chair.”

Amrod let out a breath, inching forward again. “Yes. And we were smaller then. But brother,” and he brushed his mouth across Amras’ ear. “Things are different now. Sharing a chair is one thing, but sitting on my lap another.”

A smirk flickered around Amras’ mouth. “Was it too much for you?”

Amrod nipped at Amras’ throat as the kettle started to boil. With one hand, Amras reached over, turning the stove top off and pouring the hot water into a cup. He pushed himself up to sit straight, moving Amrod with him as he went, and Amrod leaned back to find the lemon slice to drop in the cup.

The whole time he kept his eyes on his brother’s face. “It was one thing in the past,” he said. “Now,” and his fingers trailed down Amras’ side, making him shiver, his own fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Amrod’s neck. “They would be suspicious if I dragged you away in the middle of dinner.”

Amras laughed, the sound bright and one of his legs pressed briefly against Amrod’s side before it dropped again, and he sipped the hot lemon water. Curling his fingers around the cup when Amras was done, Amrod tilted it toward him, taking a drink from the opposite side. As he drank, Amras smirked again. “You are the one who dropped down on dear Caranthir.”

“Yes,” Amrod said, looking at him from under his lashes. “But I am not sleeping with him.”

“So what you are saying,” Amras said, and his stomach jumped when Amrod trailed his fingers there. “Is that we act mostly the same, with everyone else and each other, but not quite as far as we used to.”

“We could say we finally took father’s despair and lectures to heart,” Amrod said and Amras laughed.

“Even though we have done the exact opposite?”

“It would make him feel better,” Amrod said, taking another swallow before Amras stole the cup back for himself. “We only have to hone down our most extravagant actions.”

“I am not sure about going so long without touching you,” Amras said, leaning down and Amrod brushed their mouths together, brief and light.

“We will still touch, we cannot not,” Amrod said, another light kiss and Amras grabbed him around the waist, suddenly pulling him close and Amrod went willingly, finally kissing Amras, open mouthed and warm, Amras’ tongue darting out to meet him.

“As I said,” Amrod murmured and Amras laughed, legs coming up to wrap around Amrod’s waist and they nearly broke the cup, both trying to push it to the side too quickly.

-0-

“That boy is making you stupid,” Mablung said, watching Beleg lean against the wall out of the corner of his eyes.

“He is not,” Beleg said, affecting calm and not looking over.

“The hell he isn’t,” Mablung snapped. “You are not stupid enough to believe yourself.” Still Beleg did not look over at him, so with a scoff Mablung shook out another cigarette and ignored the quiet sound Beleg made when he did not offer him one.

“It’s not your business anyway,” Beleg said after a beat.

“It’s my business when the man I rely on to watch my back is swanning after a boy who by rights isn’t even ours to worry about—” Mablung started, but before he could really warm up to his rant Beleg grabbed his arm.

“Look,” he said, gesturing down the street and strolling toward them, hands in his pockets and looking from side to side was Celegorm, the flash of pale hair giving him away.

“Ah,” Mablung managed after a beat, and because his frustration with Beleg buzzed under his skin, he stepped out and right into Celegorm’s path. “Bit far out for a Noldorian, at this time of night, isn’t it?”

Celegorm blinked, cocking his head to one side before he gave Mablung a lazy smile. Behind him, Mablung could hear Beleg let out a long breath, and mutter something that sounded a lot like, “Who’s the idiot again?”

“Mablung,” Celegorm greeted. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“Yes, how shocking for me to be in my own territory, unlike some trespassers I could name,” Mablung said, posture relaxed and his limbs loose while he tried to figure out what sort of mood Celegorm was in that night.

A vicious one, he decided when Celegorm smiled, sharp and brittle. “Trespassing? How could I trespass when I might as well own this whole city? There’s no place that will close the door in my face, unlike some I could name.”

Mablung started forward before rocking back on his feet. “That’s bullshit, Noldorian, and you know it. Your dad might be rich now, but everyone knows where he got it. Building a mansion out on the outskirts of town isn’t gonna change a damned thing. He’s still a crook and you’re still gutter rats.”

Celegorm lunged at him, because he had been looking for a fight, and Mablung was always quite happy to give it to him. He tucked his chin down in preparation for Celegorm slamming against him, getting a left-handed hook into Celegorm’s cheekbone.  Celegorm slammed his knee up against his stomach, headbutting his chin in the same moment and they both went down on the filthy street.

“What, don’t like being called a gutter rat?” Mablung asked with breath he did not have to spare.

Celegorm twisted his hips and flipped Mablung over, slamming his shoulder blades into the concrete. “At least I could tell you who my father is,” Celegorm said and Mablung twisted, elbowing him in the face. As Celegorm reared back in momentary shock, Mablung pressed his advantage.

He lost track, as he often did while fighting Celegorm, of the insults or hits they got on each other. He knew Celegorm was bleeding from his mouth and nose, and he would have a black eye for certain, and that his own breathing was a bit funny from when Celegorm slammed both knees into his chest while he was still on the ground.

But it was a blur of Celegorm’s glittering eyes and the rage in his chest until suddenly Beleg’s voice cut through it all. “Stop, cops!” he said, from where he had been watching the fight, having long ago told Mablung he would do nothing in his fights with Celegorm until a gun or knife was drawn.

Celegorm jerked back, panting and bleeding and Mablung scrambled to his feet as two beat cops came around the corner, already narrowed in on them.

“Fighting, were you?”

“Hell no,” Celegorm said, rubbing his hand under his nose to catch the blood and the police officer just slowly arched his brow up, his partner almost as disbelieving as Celegorm slung an arm over Mablung’s shoulders. “We are the best of friends.”

“The best,” Mablung said, his own arm going around Celegorm’s waist and dragging him against his hip and they were both grinning.

“The hell you are,” the cop said and they were all used to this song and dance by now.

By the time they reached the police station, Beleg had slipped away, probably to report to Thingol and then scrap together bail money because there was still work they were supposed to have done that night.

They were still hanging off each other even as the officers booked them into the cells for the night on account of disturbing the peace with their fighting, even as they both insisted they had not been fighting each other at all.

“We were mugged, you know,” Celegorm said and Mablung had to duck his head to keep from grinning.

“Well, then, tonight is for your own protection,” Officer Tilion said, eyes flickering up and down.

Still pressed against his side, Mablung could feel the moment Celegorm suddenly tensed, muscles locking together and he followed his gaze, stopped when he saw officer Aldaron walk into the room, stopping when he looked up from the reports in his hands and saw them. His eyes were trained more on Celegorm then Mablung, and he darted a quick look over to Celegorm’s face, which had frozen in his grin.

“Hey, Oromë,” Tilion called, barely looking over. “You were here the last time the Noldorian was dragged in, right?”

“By chance,” he answered, approaching, and Celegorm did not look away from him. Mablung could not decide which one he wanted to watch more. “Why?”

“Just wondering if you knew which officer booked him was all,” Tilion said, before he finished whichever paperwork he was doing with a flourish. “Anyway,” and he nodded to the officers who had brought them in. Celegorm was still watching Aldaron as they were pushed away from the desk and toward the back where the holding cells were.

“Just a night to cool your heads,” the cop said, shoving Mablung’s shoulder with too much force, making him turn and hiss in annoyance as Celegorm strolled in like he owned the joint. Mablung hissed a few curses in Sindarian as the cops closed the bars, flopping down on the shelf that ran across the room.

“You gutter rat,” he snarled at Celegorm, in Sindarian.

“Careful,” Celegorm replied in the same language. “People might start to think that is an affectionate term,” but he kept his eyes trained outside their cage.

“Please,” Mablung said, poking at his ribs and checking his jaw and nose to make sure nothing was broken. It was a fast and effective search of himself before he looked back at Celegorm. “Though I suppose the reason you look like you’re lording around this place is because you’ve been in here so often.”

Celegorm hissed at him, still not looking over and Mablung got out with a slight sound of pain before he plopped back down, the side of his leg pressed against Celegorm’s. He used the edge of his sleeve to wipe up some of the worst blood from Celegorm’s split lip. “Stop that,” Celegorm said, batting his hand away and Mablung shrugged and went back to what he was doing. “As I said, an affectionate term.”

“Please,” Mablung repeated. “However, we are friends right now, yeah?” and Celegorm just shook his head.

His head whipped over when there was a sound and suddenly Oromë Aldaron stood on the other side of the bars, his arms crossed over his impressive chest and Celegorm and Mablung both froze.

“You don’t usually work the night shift,” Mablung said, switching back to English, because Aldaron was not a cop worth crossing.

“No,” Aldaron agreed, arms still crossed and there were a million feelings flitting across Celegorm’s face. Even in the midst of fighting or fucking, Mablung had never seen so many as when he looked at the cop. “There have been a lot of late nights, lately.”

“If you think we have information on Melkor or Morgoth or whatever he’s calling himself nowadays, you have caught the wrong fish,” Mablung scoffed, and Celegorm still had not moved.

“That is not why you were brought here,” Aldaron said, eyes flickering to Celegorm and staying a moment too long. “But on your own merits and law breaking.

“What, you got something on us?” Celegorm asked suddenly, and for a moment Mablung could see actual fear in his eyes as they did not move from the cop in front of them.

“No,” Aldaron said after a beat. “What dirt could I possibly have on you? Besides what we have let you go on a hundred nights before.”

Celegorm stared at him with his mouth open and eyes wide for a beat, so fast Mablung might have missed it if he had dared to blink. Then the corner of Celegorm’s mouth twisted up, and Mablung knew that smile, had punched it before because he resented the other man looking so pleased, had kissed it other times. It was the smile Celegorm gave him when he was particularly pleased, cocky and confident and sure of his own self.

He quickly slid his eyes over to Aldaron, trying not to make the motion too obvious. He, in turn, looked somewhat stunned, before clearing his throat.

“Yeah?” Celegorm asked, one side of his mouth still quirked upward. “Then what is the point of bringing us in here?”

“Can you pay the fine for disturbing the peace?” Aldaron asked after a beat and shook his head. There was annoyance and hesitation under all his motions and Celegorm’s smile was fading. “Have a good night,” he added with perhaps too much venom before leaving.

Celegorm let out a long, somewhat shaky breath while Mablung looked sideways at him.

He let the silence settle around them for a long moment. “So,” he said, in Sindarian again, and it felt too loud from where he was still pressed along Celegorm’s side. He tilted his head, almost whispering directly in his ear. “What’s up with you and officer Aldaron?”

Celegorm jerked like Mablung had hit him again before he forced himself into sudden stillness, looking at Mablung sideways. “Nothing.”

“Oh, do try that again, you might have a hope of being convincing,” Mablung said dryly and Celegorm scowled. He twitched away, putting space between them.

“There is nothing,” he said. “Going on. You are seeing things. Must have hit your head too hard.”

Mablung just laughed, leaning back and within an hour Beleg stood at the door, arms crossed and scowling. “Since you’re such good friends,” he said, also in Sindarian. “You’re both out. Let’s go.”

Celegorm grinned, bolting out of the cell and brushing his fingers over Beleg’s shoulder, who quickly shrugged them off. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Damn you,” Beleg muttered back, his eyes narrowed and hard when he stared at Mablung who moved much slower. “You owe me so much,” he said.

“Does this mean you want a week free of bitching about the boy?” Mablung said after a beat.

“Sold,” Beleg said, heading for the door and nodding stiffly at the officers who knew them well enough to wave and smirk. “I hate this place.”

“I think that’s the point,” Mablung said, slinging a hand over his shoulder and his chest still felt a bit funny. “Shall we then?”

“Actually do what we were supposed to?” Beleg asked, once they hit the cold of the night air. “Yes. I would like to sleep tonight.”

Mablung laughed, tossing his head back and thinking about the way Celegorm looked at the cop in fear and want and slotted that away for the next time the pale haired Noldorian made him angry. “Sleep,” he said, squeezing Beleg again. “Is for the weak and legal.”

Beleg shoved him in return. “No it’s not. Let’s just get this done and get home.”

Carefully, Mablung bit back his next comment about Túrin, sliding his hands from Beleg’s shoulders. “Alright,” he agreed. “Let’s get this done.”

-0-

Celegorm ran until he reached the café where they had agreed to meet several nights ago. His skin felt too tight, because he had looked at Oromë watching him at the station and felt a flood of fear. It was one thing to push and ask if Oromë would ever turn him in when they were pressed together, Oromë panting into his mouth and his hands warm on Celegorm’s hips.    

But when Oromë had looked at him through the bars, when he would have been reminded of who and what he was, and who and what Celegorm was, Celegorm had felt the cold wash of fear.

Oromë had only shook his head though, and walked away.

“You… you are actually here,” Celegorm said, coming to a skidding stop where Oromë sat at one of the tables, smoking and there was a cup of coffee in front of him.

His eyes snapped up and he blinked. “You got out fast,” he said, stilling.

“Bail,” Celegorm shrugged, and his hands itched. “From a friend.”

“Or someone trying to make us think you were friends instead of fighting,” Oromë rumbled and Celegorm shrugged again, bracing his hands on the table. Oromë’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “You are being obvious,” he whispered.

“Sorry,” Celegorm said. “Why are you still here if you did not expect me to come?”

“It was on the way home,” Oromë said and he rose, Celegorm stepping too close and this was dangerously stupid. “And I wanted coffee.”

“Thought I was going to miss you, babe,” Celegorm said and Oromë’s eyes widened comically.

“What?” he asked, and no one else sat at the outside tables, only a few late night owls still inside and they could be seen but no one was close enough to hear them.

“I thought I would miss you?” Celegorm repeated and Oromë shook his head.

Hidden in the darkness and on the side away from the café, Oromë’s hand drifted to Celegorm’s hip, his fingers resting warm and heavy there. “You look a mess.”

Celegorm shrugged, breath short and he stepped away, fading into the side street. “Come on,” he breathed, quiet and almost lost under the sound of a passing car. Oromë paused to close his eyes before he followed Celegorm into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~So much almost gratuitous Celegorm/Orome scenes hanging out at the end of my chapters. Oh well. Y'all should know what you signed up for by now~~


	8. Chapter 8

“Honestly,” Caranthir said from the doorway, flipping through a small notebook with his and Maglor’s hand writing on alternating pages. “Have you seen him sleep at all this week?”

“No,” Maglor said, not yet looking up from the papers in front of him. Sometimes he wondered how exactly illegal activities created such a paper trail. He finished his signature with a flourish on a note to their liaison out on the ocean and moved to the next letter.

Caranthir frowned, flipping through the book again. “Maedhros is human, correct?”

“I think so,” Maglor said.

“Then no human should exist on so little sleep,” Caranthir said, shutting the book and the rustle of paper almost distracted Maglor enough for him to forget the next word he was about to write. “Unless he is sleeping elsewhere.”

“That does not make a lot of sense,” Maglor said.

“Even as a kid he did not sleep much,” Caranthir said, picking up the letter Maglor had just finished, reading over it. “But this is ridiculous. You will have to rewrite this?”

“ _What_?” Maglor asked, looking up.

Caranthir waved the letter in front of him. “This is riddled with sloppy hand writing and misspelled words.”

“It is to a man who is basically a _pirate_ ,” Maglor returned.

“I will rewrite it for you,” Caranthir said, sitting down suddenly across from Maglor and his brother blinked owlishly at him. “Though, our brother aside, you have been working yourself to the bone too. Have you slept?”

“I sleep,” Maglor said with a  tiny shake of his head and Caranthir turned his letter around enough for him to see the way he had misspelled pleasure. “… That does not mean I do not sleep.”

“Either not enough or other stress has hijacked your higher brain functions,” Caranthir shrugged, as if he was unconcerned and continued to copy the letter in his graceful sprawl. For a while Maglor got distracted from his own correspondence, watching the graceful black letters appear on the page.

“It is hard to worry about so many siblings,” he said after a moment and Caranthir did not lift his dark head, only humming a question. “That includes you, you know.”

Eyes darting up, Caranthir shook his head slightly. “You do not have to concern your overcommitted head with me.”

“You are currently sleeping on my floor.”

“Your couch, technically,” Caranthir waved away.

“Because you were kicked out of your last apartment,” Maglor barreled on and got waved off again. “And you have not found another one yet.”

“I will,” Caranthir said. “I have several potential leads there, I shall not trouble you further for long.”

“It,” Maglor started. “It is not a trouble, brother, to have you here.” In fact it had been something of a relief, even though another body in their small space had flared up new tensions between all three of the brothers. But it was nice, to come home early in the morning and find Caranthir drinking coffee with circles under his eyes, as Maedhros was already long gone, and to have someone else to try and bully Maedhros into eating food that was not in a tin or to sleep more than an hour on the couch.

“Never the less,” Caranthir said and handed him back the letter he had copied. Maglor cast his eyes over it quickly, noticing Caranthir had corrected his grammar and made an ambiguous sentence more clear to not cause insult.

“How is it you are so civil in written words and so confrontational when it matters?” Maglor blurted before he could stop himself. “If you had not scolded him to his face, your last landlord would probably have not kicked you out.”

Caranthir’s eyes narrowed. “No, he had already decided to be done with me. I refused to go quietly and that was a choice, not the cause of our disagreement.”

Rubbing a hand over his temple, Maglor considered the way Caranthir’s body had closed off, tense and angry. Sometimes he understood how other people saw Caranthir. “You know,” he said, trying to sound casual. “You do not have to live by yourself.”

“I _want_ to live by myself,” Caranthir shot back.

“But why?” Maglor asked, because he could not imagine a life where he did not come home to someone else, especially one of his brothers. “We grew up together, all of us—”

“Crammed into that little apartment,” Caranthir finished. “Yes. I know.”

“The twins would probably take you into their new place,” Maglor said after a beat, because while he could accept Caranthir not wanting to live with him or Maedhros in the long term, he had not quite grasped the idea of Caranthir wanting to be done with all of them.

For a moment Caranthir paused, before he gave a tiny shake of his head, pushing himself to his feet. “I am going to make you tea,” he said, and Maglor blinked at the abrupt subject change, not the first one that had startled him that night.  “And when you have finished drinking it, you are going to sleep.”

“I,” Maglor started, and realized how fuzzy his eyes felt before he nodded. “Alright. But I get to work through the tea.”

Caranthir’s laugh drifted through the apartment and out the open window as he floated into the kitchen.

-0-

“Sister,” Oromë greeted as Nessa grabbed his arm as he walked through the door, almost like she had been waiting there the whole night for him to make his appearance. Fashionably late did not quite cover the reality of a case that had gone on too long, and by that hour the party had passed its peak and had already started to pitter out into bad booze and the rich of the town drifting around in lazy dancing and too loud laughter. He barely spared a glance around the room before focusing on her round face, which had inherited the petite features of their mother.

“I had been too long,” she said. “Almost as if you are avoiding me.”

“I would never,” he returned and it was the truth. Smiling at him, soft and secret to show it was her real smile and not the one she wore for society, she started circling the room, her arm linked through his.

“Good,” she said, voice light and teasing. “Because I do know where to find you.” That got an amused chuckle from him. “You have missed the last several events our family has hosted, though.”

“I was detained at work,” he said, and she hummed, not yet going there. Oromë knew it would come up again later though, when Nessa worked her way around to the issue.

“Vána’s here,” Nessa said and Oromë grunted at the topic shift. “What? She would be good for you, and you for her. She is most fond of you, and that is the same for you also.”

“Yes,” Oromë agreed, because he was fond of her. But fond had nothing on the light in Celegorm’s eyes, on the shortness of his breath when he caught the Noldorian staring at him or the way his hands ached when they fitted on Celegorm’s hipbones and the way Celegorm slotted into place against Oromë’s chest.

Nessa made a dissatisfied sound. “But you will not marry her.”

“No,” Oromë agreed again. “Besides, the idea of sisters marrying cousins?” and he nodded over to where Yavanna and Aulë stood, Aulë’s arm flung casually around his wife’s waist as she giggled against his shoulder.

“Sisters have wed brothers all the time,” she returned and he grunted again. “But fine. You will not marry her and make yourself happy.”

“It is not—” he started and shook his head, painting a smile on his face as someone he recognized but did not remember called a greeting. “But enough of that,” he said and they were still circling the main party. “Tell me the gossip I have missed these past weeks.”

“I do not think I should reward you burying your nose in work,” Nessa laughed, the sound bright and twinkling, and it belonged in this room as much as he still felt like he did not. “Yavanna has imported a new plant—or tried to. It is so exotic the customs officials still have no released it and it remains in their office. She goes down every day to water it.” Oromë tried not to laugh as they were greeted by another familiar stranger.

“Oh, but more exciting, Irmo is engaged.”

Oromë choked on air and laughed, seeking their cousin out and finding him with a girl on his arm, smiling more at each other then taking notice of anyone else. His chest ached again and he did not think of what it would be like to dare and stare at Celegorm like that. “Irmo? Honestly? He has always been so good at pinpointing other’s desires I thought he had turned everyone else off. People rarely want to engage with their own dreams, let alone have someone else point them out to you.”

“Apparently he has finally figured out what he wants for himself,” Nessa said. “And that is dear Estë there, scion of a good family who laughed in the face of expectation to become a doctor.”

“Doctor?” Oromë repeated and took another look at the slender woman.

“You will have to go up and shake her hand later,” Nessa said wryly.

“As you already have,” Oromë said, not a question and there was an edge to Nessa’s smile.

“Of course,” she replied and paused, finger plucking at the edge of Oromë’s fraying cuff. He wanted to draw his hand back and forced himself to remain still and not tug his arm away. “You know, if you need help—”

Oromë barely contained his flinch. “It is fine. I am fine.”

“This suit is seasons out of date and do not lie, I know it is the only good one you own. I know because it is the only one you wear when you do come. You do not have to—”

“I work honestly for what I have,” he said softly and her mouth thinned in insult. “Not that others do not. But I have what I have and it is enough.”

Nessa’s eyes scanned the room for a moment, and neither of them had to say what was enough for him was not enough for those in this room, judging him behind their glasses not only for the color of his skin, but for his frayed and worn cuffs. “I just wish to help,” she said, low.

“You with for everyone to be as happy as you,” he said, barely managing to exchange another greeting in time before the couple had swanned past them. Taking a deep breath, he focused back on his sister, whose eyes were still elsewhere. When she felt his gaze, her dark eyes flickered back up to meet his again. “In wealth, home, and marriage, you want the same for me. It is kind, sister, even when I reject it.”

She let out a long breath before smiling again. “And reject it you do, forcefully.”

Oromë opened his mouth to reply when someone behind his shoulder called “Baby!”

For a second his heart lurched, cutting off the air to his lungs even though he quickly realized it was not Celegorm’s voice at all. He carefully looked over his shoulder anyway, simply to confirm it.

When he dared look back at Nessa, she was considering him seriously. “Tulkas says you have been stressed,” she said. “That you said you were not sleeping well and distracted.”

“My sister and my boss, gossiping about me,” Oromë said, wryly.

“It is hardly my fault I wed your boss,” Nessa said with a spark of humor before her eyes turned serious again.

“He was my superior before your husband,” Oromë said, bracing himself.

“He is worried though, not for your ability to do your job, but for _you_. And so I am.” She tightened  her hand on his arm and they stopped walking. “Is this about Melkor?” and the silence that stretched between them was full of secrets and shared memories of a childhood living in the same house as Melkor.

She started speaking again, quietly prodding at the same question, and he let her voice wash over him. If she felt concerned about something she worked her way up to it. Their conversation would start quietly, with talk of their family and the assorted going ons of the wealthy and famous.

But then somehow she would offer to help him and bolster the meager sums of money he amassed. While she meant well, as someone who understood what it meant to have dark skin and be other even though she inherited their mother’s paler skin and delicate features as opposed to being their laborer father’s son, he still could not stop his distaste for the offer. It was not her fault sometimes the other cousins would ask if he needed help or money, and they would look at him with pitying eyes as if they knew, fundamentally, he could not take care of himself.  Some days their offers of money felt like his family was a step away from saying he did not need to work for wages at all, because they would talk care of his needs in exchange for some unpaid labor. In return they would protect and feed him as long as he never complained.

It was not Nessa’s fault he wondered how many people wanted to reinstitute slavery simply looking at his face.

But then she would drop the issue of money and finally work herself to the matter that truly concerned her, the matter she most wanted to bring up but had to brace herself for first.

“—You do not have to be afraid of him,” she finished, jaw set and stubborn, and Oromë knew, like a punch to his stomach, that she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

“Perhaps not,” he said after a beat. “But he will harm someone.”

“He is not your responsibility,” she said, hotly. “He never has been.”

“But it is my job,” he said and she opened her mouth as Mandos approached. At his greeting she closed it again.

“Mandos,” Oromë greeted, relieved at the interruption. Mandos inclined his serious head.

“It is good to see you here, cousin.”

“You are not allowed to discuss work,” Nessa said, voice lighter than it had been with just her and Oromë.

“A judge and a cop?” Mandos asked. “We clearly are incapable of having a conversation in a friendly, family setting.”

“Clearly not,” Oromë agreed. “Have you heard what the Sindar—” and Nessa huffed.

“Stop it,” she said. “Neither of you are being serious.”

Except something flickered in Mandos’ expression, that he would very much like to hear what the Sindarians were doing. “No,” he agreed in his level voice. “We aren’t being serious at all. But your husband is starting to look a bit frantic around the eyes and you might have to relinquish your brother to go save him. I thought I would allow you to relinquish him to a friendly party.”

“And you are that friendly party?” she asked, batting her free hand lightly on his arm even as she started looking around for Tulkas, finding him cornered by the refreshments. “Oh dear,” she said under her breath, hand sliding from Oromë’s arm.

“Is that not the head of—” Oromë started and she was already sliding across the room, ever graceful and poised. Both he and Mandos watched her go.

“I suppose you really would rather not discuss work,” Mandos said after a beat.

“I would really like a drink, actually,” Oromë said and Mandos almost chuckled, a rumbling sound deep in his chest coming out. “It has been a long few weeks.”

“Yes, I could imagine,” Mandos said. “Winter still grips the city and it makes crime… difficult.”

“Are the homeless storming churches again?” Oromë asked, wry and dark and Mandos shook his head.

“No, but they are being brought up more and more on charges of petty theft and yes, some trespassing,” he said, and Oromë turned himself in the direction of the whiskey instead of think about that too much. “Have you heard about Irmo?” Mandos said instead of continuing and Oromë found it in him to laugh again.  

“Will you be involved in the wedding preparations of your brother then?” he teased and Mandos leveled him with his serious eyes.

“Probably,” he said heavily and Oromë felt his mouth twitch again. “I suppose we all likely will be, at some point.”

But none, Oromë thought, would look as out of place as Mandos.

Except perhaps he himself, who felt out of place simply by standing in the same room, the heat of the chandeliers above and the stares of strangers both trickling down his back. “Have they set a date yet?” he asked, twitching his shoulders around.

“Not yet,” Mandos said. “They are still basking in the newness of their affection and engagement.”

“How wonderful for them,” Oromë said quietly, hands too tight at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently hijacking is a word attributed to the 1920s. I /wonder why/ I say, not wondering at all. 
> 
> I wrote a lot of this chapter out by hand while in Hawaii last week. Sorry for the delay in updating, I was keyboardless and too busy watching turtles. 
> 
> But. Oh my GOD TWO PEOPLE WROTE WORKS INSPIRED BY THIS SINCE THE LAST UPDATE I AM STILL SO FLOORED.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Ulmo came out of nowhere.

Celegorm let out a high pitch whine, pressed against the wall by Oromë’s bulk. It was a foggy evening, and the streetlamps seemed murky and far away. “Come on,” he said, Oromë’s hands already down his pants. “Just, please…”

“Please what?” Oromë asked, mouth pressed against his ear and Celegorm hit the wall behind him because he could not contain everything inside anymore. Oromë hand shifted, sliding down behind his balls and stroking there before moving back, stroking him slowly. “What do you want?”

Celegorm struggled to get the words to orient the right way in his head again. “I want you in me,” he managed and Oromë froze, hand still gripping Celegorm’s cock.

“No,” he said and Celegorm gaped at him.

“What?” he said, barely not stuttering.

“I will not,” and Oromë’s mouth was still against his ear and that just seemed unfair, considering the words he was saying. “Take you like that in an alley.”

“What?” Celegorm repeated. “Why the damned hell not?”

Oromë’s eyes were dark when he drew back to meet Celegorm’s. “This is bad enough,” he said quietly. “I will not take the time to properly,” and his hands tightened, one on Celegorm’s hip the other still on his cock. “To properly prepare you, to properly take you, in a place such as this.”

“It does not take that much time,” Celegorm said. “Damn, I have done it before. It can be fast, really, it can,” and he was practically pleading because he thought about it. He thought about Oromë taking him when he stood in the shower, idly washing his chest and considering if his fingers would take the edge off. He thought about it while he was blocking out his father’s lectures at their family dinners. He thought about it when he should have been focused on the men carrying guns in front of him.

He was starting it was something he just needed to get out of his system.

Except Oromë was staring at him, with a frown, and he looked sad and angry all at once. His hands were still too tight and Celegorm whimpered quietly. “No,” Oromë repeated, voice low and it rumbled in his chest. Celegorm shifted and pressed his own tighter against Oromë’s. “If I am going to take you, it will be done _right_ ,” and Celegorm stared at him because he had no idea what right was even supposed to look like.

“it is not that hard,” he tried again. “We can make it fast. It does not take much, for me.”

That frown was still there. “How often do you do this?” he asked, and Celegorm convinced himself he only wanted to see the jealousy.

“Often enough,” he shot back and Oromë practically slammed him back into the wall. “Oh,” he breathed, twining his arms around Oromë’s neck and holding on. That felt a whole lot like jealously.

“And when was the last time you did such a thing?” and Oromë growled the question.

“Last week,” Celegorm lied. It had been months. It had been before he met Oromë the first night, when he went after Mablung one night and they ended up in some dead end street, hiding under a fire escape after some job went horribly wrong and Mablung left bruises on his hips and back.

Oromë froze, and Celegorm could not breathe because jealousy was all over his features. He raised a shaking hand, smoothing it over Oromë’s forehead and cheek. “It is not so bad or hard, c’mon baby, please.”

Staring at him, Oromë suddenly dropped to his knees and Celegorm whined, because he still could not get over Oromë on his knees in front of him, even though it had happened a few times. But it still was not what he wanted most. Except after Oromë tugged his pants down, he slid his hands under Celegorm’s thighs and lifted them up, placing his legs on his own shoulders.

“What?” Celegorm gasped, surprised and stunned, scrabbling his hands in the holes where the wall was falling apart. He only had the wall and Oromë’s shoulders and hands to hold him up.

Oromë only looked up at him with dark eyes before swallowing him. Celegorm tried to muffle his voice by pressing his mouth to his shoulder, unable to let go of the wall. Biting the fabric of his jacket, he lost himself in Oromë’s heat and even when he came, shuddering apart, it did not feel like enough anymore.

He kissed Oromë anyway, sucked his tongue until he could not taste himself there anymore.

-0-

“Do you want something?” Finrod asked and Ulmo slowly looked up from where he was sprawled in the back corner of Nargothrond’s floor, a tumbler of whiskey in front of him and smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand.

Finrod slid into the seat across from him, stealing the cigarette and taking a drag before handing it back.

“I don’t have to want anything to come here,” Ulmo replied, accepting his cigarette back with good grace. “Do you know, Manwë still insists on cigars? It’s disgustingly old fashioned.”

“Yes,” Finrod said, wry. “How awful of him.”

“You look tense,” Ulmo remarked.

Finrod laughed, and it sounded more authentic then Ulmo had expected it too. “Of course I am tense,” he said, Noldorian accent slipping through in his vowels. Ulmo forgot how much he missed that sound until he heard Finrod speak again. “I am an outlaw. It is liable to make one tense, no?”

The corners of Ulmo’s mouth twitched. “No sons of Fëanor lurking around tonight,” he remarked, idle and Finrod hesitated.

“I thought you said you did not want anything,” he said, quieter.

“I did not,” Ulmo said. “When I came here, it was to enjoy the atmosphere and have a drink.”

Finrod pursed his mouth, watching Ulmo before he stole a sip of his whiskey, sliding the glass back along the table. “You rather like whiskey, don’t you?” Ulmo asked, amused.

“I have acquired a taste for it, yes,” Finrod said.

“You know,” Ulmo remarked, as if he was being casual. “I come in here quite often, when you do not even notice me.”

That caused a frown to appear on Finrod’s face. “Why?” he asked, and he looked tenser, wound tighter then he had been when Ulmo first walked in. Ulmo reached forward, stroking a finger down the back of one of Finrod’s hands and at least his shoulders dropped slightly.

“Because I like this kingdom you built for yourself,” he said.

“You had a greater hand in building Turgon’s,” Finrod replied. “Why not lurk in his corners.”

“You think I don’t?” Ulmo returned and a smile flickered on Finrod’s face and died again. “Gondolin is beautiful, grand and full to the brink with lights and secret rooms. Entirely my sort of place.”

“Because you helped design it,” Finrod said.

“Exactly,” Ulmo inclined his head. “This place,” and he waved a hand around, at the stone walls and gold reflecting the light, Finrod’s cat spread out on her side on the bar, washing one pale paw. “This place I didn’t even get the chance to find. I only hooked you up with the guy who helped you buy the place. Everything here is yours. It’s nice to make myself at home here.”

“How…” Finrod started, brow lifting. “Stunningly suggestive of you.”

Ulmo laughed, because he would never admit how much he missed Finrod.

He reached out again, lifting the whiskey with one hand and letting the other rest on Finrod’s wrist, at his pulse. Finrod stared at him a moment, unmoving, before he cocked his head. “Would you like any more?” Ulmo asked, tilting the glass toward Finrod. Leaning forward, Finrod accepted the offered sip, meeting Ulmo’s eyes from where he still held the cup.

Except when Ulmo tilted forward, Finrod drew back. “I am not in the mood tonight,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning all the way back into his chair.

“No?” Ulmo asked and did not lean back.

“No,” Finrod said again and there was something brittle in his tone.

Ulmo glanced toward the door. “And does this have something to do with your dark suitor? If he was going to come, he would be here tonight.”

“I have got to start watching this corner more often,” Finrod decided, a furrow between his brows.

Ulmo inclined his head. “Does he know you do not share only your bed with him?”

“Does that matter to our conversation, right now?” Finrod demanded.

“No,” Ulmo said. “Simple curiosity.”

“Just because you,” Finrod started and stopped, gathering his thoughts and leaning forward again, elbows on the table. “I owe neither you, nor him, anything.”

“Except what you are willing to give us,” Ulmo agreed. He wanted to reach out and stroke a hand down Finrod’s golden hair, use the necklace to pull him into a kiss. He did not though, because Finrod had already told him no.

Taking a deep breath, Finrod leaned back again, and he looked more relaxed. “I am sorry if I have dampened your night.”

Ulmo sucked the inside of his cheek a moment, trying not to laugh. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said and Finrod narrowed his eyes. “Seeing you in this place, talking to you, that’s a good night. Anything else would only be,” and he stopped, letting his eyes trail over Finrod for a moment and he could see the tiny hint of color rise on Finrod’s cheeks, the closest he got to blushing. “Would only be a bonus on an already good sell.”

The corner of Finrod’s mouth quirked and Ulmo forgot, sometimes, how easy he found it to talk to Finrod. He was fairly certain no one else felt the same way, not even Turgon, but then again, he was fairly certain no one enjoyed talking to him as much as Finrod did either.

“How is your family, anyway?” Ulmo asked.

“Ah,” Finrod said. “I will only answer that question if you do.”

“My family’s going ons is matter of public knowledge,” Ulmo said. “Aulë tries to institute a sweeping reform and fails, again. Tulkas tries to control his police, and fails, again as they beat a prisoner to the brink of death and have to send him to a hospital. Manwë once again persecutes  the lowest rung of criminals, putting away those in for petty theft and maybe, if he is lucky, counterfeiting.”

“I hear one of you is getting married,” Finrod said, looking amused.

“Ah, yes,” Ulmo said. “You are right, that is noteworthy news. They might cause a scandal if they’re not careful.”

“Will you never get married?” Finrod asked and he smiled, too knowing.

Ulmo scoffed, shaking his head. “I am as likely to get married as I am to settle into a respectable, bourgeoisie job that my family could be proud of.”

“I thought your only occupation was to have all the connections,” Finrod said, and his tone was actually teasing. Ulmo raised his glass to Finrod in a mock salute and drained the last of the whiskey.

“Someone, at last, who understands.”

“I understand you very well,” Finrod said quietly, and if it had been anyone else, Ulmo would have resented the bald declaration. As it was, he had a soft spot for Finrod since the first night they met, over six years ago. Ulmo missed when they had been closer, when Finrod had needed him more.

Instead of saying anything, he plucked at Finrod’s hand, until Finrod let him pick it up and press a kiss to his palm. Finrod’s fingers curled but he did not pull back and Ulmo set his hand back on the table.

He would never admit how much he missed Finrod, he repeated to himself. Too many others loved and adored the man, and he refused to move as part of the crowd.

“Ulmo,” Finrod said quietly. “Do you intend to stay later?”

“You have told me nothing of your family,” Ulmo returned. “After I so graciously shared my news.”

Finrod sighed, looking away for the first time, and some of his earlier tension leaked back in. “Gossip of the underworld is harder to come by. For all I know, you shall take it to your dear commissioner.”

“Sweetling, you know me so much better than that,” Ulmo said, wry and was graced with another tiny smile.

“My uncles have decided to work together,” he said quietly, and Ulmo had been around often enough to know what that meant, and all the implications.

“They’re scared of Melkor,” he said, not a question.

“He has already moved,” Finrod replied. “Shipments have gone missing, people have disappeared. Sauron has been seen again, watching. He is too obvious to be a spy, so the only assumption is he is a warning. And your family,” Finrod’s smile turned sharp. “Sit and laugh and drink and let him run wild.”

Ulmo sighed, rubbing his temples. “And you—”

“As secure as I can ever be,” Finrod said.

Ulmo twitched his mouth, meeting Finrod’s eyes. “You’ve painted a target on your back, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” Finrod agreed, and leaned back, spreading his arms out. “And look at the fortress I have built to protect my back from a wayward shot.”

“It can still be found,” Ulmo said.

“Someday,” Finrod agreed. “Someday, of course it will be. Someday we all will be exposed and vulnerable. But not yet. I am still strong here.”

Ulmo remembered when he had wanted to convince Finrod to run with him, to take his boat and sail down the coast, maybe get all the way down to Argentina, and then back up the other coast, as long as they never came back. “For the time being.”

“Yes,” Finrod said and something shifted in his posture. “Ulmo,” he said softly, a barely there caress of his name. “Come have another drink with me.”

“You said you didn’t want to,” Ulmo said, holding himself carefully.

Finrod rose in one fluid motion and he was so beautiful it still made Ulmo’s chest ache. He had always been pretty, but he aged well, like a good wine. Like a good whiskey. “I changed my mind,” he said, and turned to leave. Ulmo followed, a few steps behind and weaved a different path through the crowd before meeting Finrod at his door.

-0-

Gothmog kicked the body, shoving it from its stomach to lie on its back. “Do you think they’ll notice when this one disappears?” He barely noticed the blood seeping into his shoe.

“Like the others?” Glaurung asked, from where he was bent in half, going through the car the man had been driving. “We’ll just have to dispose of the body carefully.”

“Which you are very good at,” Gothmog said, tilting his head in the other direction. “I think I recognize this one.”

“All Noldorians look alike,” Glaurung scoffed, straightening and making a pleased sound. “But fuck, they have nice guns. Look at this beauty.”

“Looks like it could cause damage,” Gothmog said, amused. “Which means I’m sure you’ll keep it for yourself.” He turned his head, as there was a rustle and Sauron appeared in the circle of their car’s headlights. There was a leaf in his hair, but otherwise he looked unruffled. “Did you get the runner?”

Sauron didn’t bother to grace that with a response, simply sliding into the driver’s seat of the Noldorian’s car. “These men were Fingolfin’s,” he said and leveled Glaurung with a look. “Just in case anyone helps, it’s useful to know who we’re killing.”

“Yeah?” Glaurung scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. They’re Noldorians. We got their booze and guns.”

Sauron’s eyes flickered to Gothmog and he shook his head, starting the car with a rattle. “Dispose of that one,” he said, voice ice. “I’ll meet you back at town,” and he took off down the dark road, leaving Gothmog and Glaurung alone with their car and the body.

“Such a charmer,” Glaurung said.

“Don’t ,” Gothmog shook his head, loading the last of the booze shipment into the back of their own car.

“Why defend him?” Glaurung demanded. “He’s done nothing for you and never will.”

“I’m not defending him,” Gothmog said. “I just don’t want to listen to you moan about him the rest of the night.” He considered the body again. “I really do wonder who he was.”

Glaurung rolled his eyes. “Don’t. He’s dead. We killed him. We get to celebrate tonight and he gets to find a grave.”

“They are going to eventually strike back at us,” Gothmog said, toeing the body again, and he looked up with a grin that matched Glaurung’s.

“I can’t wait for them to try,” Glaurung said and Gothmog’s laugh startled a nest of birds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was high on sex and low on plot. Dang. (Oh well that's what the Angband gang is for)


	10. Chapter 10

“You act as if there is nothing to worry about,” Fingon snapped and Curufin shook his head across the table.

“I am simply saying you are—” Curufin started at the same time Maedhros started to speak.

“Maybe we should all—”

“I suggest you not say calm down,” Caranthir muttered from where he sat beside his oldest brother, Maglor on Maedhros’ other side and the twins squeezed in next to Caranthir. Across the table, Fingon’s expression was becoming darker, belaying his casual sprawl.

“I am not overreacting,” Fingon said, Fëanor sitting at the head of the table and leaning back, looking as casual as Fingon was trying too. “Our people are going missing, have been going missing, and while I’m sure we all have some pretty firm suspicions on _who_ and _why_ that’s happening, you’re sitting there and telling me—”

“What does it matter _who_ has disappeared?” Curufin snapped back. “All that matters is that there have been losses, knowing the names of those dead is meaningless—”

“It matters because they were people! They had names!” Fingon said. “Gelmir was one of them—”

“And I do not care whose name was what,” Curufin said. “They are dead now and your own moral posturing only—”

“Is this really the point of this?” Maedhros cut in again.

“If we had known this would only about personal grudges and bickering, I am certain we would have found something better to do,” Galadriel said, sitting next to her younger brothers. “I thought we were called here to actually communicate and work on our next move.”

“We are waiting for Fingolfin,” Turgon said, hands tight where they were in his lap and Finrod looking posed and calm across from him.

Curufin stared in his direction for a moment too long, before shaking his head and resting his hands flat on the table in front of him. Fingon still looked murderous but he settled back too, crossing his legs and folding his arms over his chest.

“Is there anything we can discuss civilly before that?” Amrod asked, looking like he was paying more attention to the camera in his hands then anyone around the table.

“If we had known all the sons of Fëanor were going to show up for a meeting such as this, perhaps we would have brought all our brothers as well,” Galadriel said mildly and Fëanor shrugged, not apologetic .  

“I am surprised you expected any of them to go anywhere without the others,” Aredhel said.

“How many people have you been missing?” Galadriel asked, looking from Fingon to Aredhel.

“Two shipments,” Aredhel replied. “In the last week at least.”

“So you do not know all their names,” Curufin said. “You just signaled out, what was it, Gelmir? Was he the only one you actually knew?”

Fingon tensed as if he would stand up. “How dare—”

The door opened, Fingolfin bending down slightly to avoid the sign over the door. The restaurant had been the only space large enough that most people could agree on.

“Father,” Aredhel said, jumping to her feet the same time Fingon rose. “You are late.”

“I was,” Fingolfin said, and looked around the long table, made up of several pushed together before focusing on his children, somewhere near the center of the table and between Finrod and his siblings and Fëanor.

“Detained?” Fëanor finished the sentence sardonically for him.

Fingolfin stared at him a long moment before turning back to his children. “We need to talk.”

“Anything you need to say should be shared with all of us,” Curufin cut in, Caranthir crossing his arms over his chest and frowning.

Fingolfin leveled a long look on him. “In time,” he said, and moved, a long and graceful figure to the empty kitchens. For a moment, Fingon and Turgon stared at each other, Aredhel not even pausing before following their father.

“Where is Argon?” she asked, and they both sprang into motion.

The door closed behind them and Curufin was already speaking again. “How in the spirit of alliance that was.”

“Something seemed wrong,” Amras said, tilting his head, shoulder pressed tightly against Amrod’s.

“Something is always wrong,” Galadriel remarked, frowning at the door.

“If it was,” Curufin continued. “It probably involves all of us. But instead of sharing, he simply drags his children off, as if they must hear it first.”

“What if it is something that only concerns them?” Maedhros snapped. “You do not have to assume the worst of everyone, brother.”

“And you do not have to assume the best!”

Finrod frowned toward the kitchen door, sitting perfectly still and poised, in his black and white suit with its somber tie and his simple fedora. He could almost, in this outfit, pass as a socially acceptable gentleman.

“You are being preposterous,” Maedhros said, Fëanor sitting with his fingers steepled and staying out of the conversation.

“You are too forgiving,” Caranthir said quietly and then fell silent again, temper still under control while Curufin’s was clearly only heating up.

“We are supposed to be allies,” he said, eyes blazing and Celegrom was staring at the closed door too instead of really paying attention to his brother. “And yet he hides still, on the night we set out for us to be honest and learn to work together. What is the point, if we are already keeping secrets again?”

“And you have opened all your own business to us?” Galadriel asked.

“There is a difference between—” Curufin started.

“Curufin,” Finrod said suddenly, voice quiet but everyone turned their heads to look at him. He still looked bored and perfect. “Shut up.”

Curufin stared at him slack jawed, too flabbergasted to reply for a damningly long moment.

Before he, or anyone else, could gather up their words, the door opened again, Fingolfin stepping out. “You will have to excuse us,” he said and Fëanor narrowed his eyes at his half-brother. “I believe while tonight has only made a meeting like this more important, it shall have to wait.”

“Why?” Fëanor snapped. “Was Curufin correct, are you not committed to the idea of this alliance for all our safety?”

“No,” Fingolfin said, and it looked like he had aged years in the last few minutes, Turgon appearing at his shoulder. “No in fact, now more than ever. But Argon is dead.”

Fëanor froze. “Your son.”

“Of course my son,” Fingolfin snapped, for Fëanor had even more disinterest in his half-brother’s children then in his siblings. “My youngest and we have received word he is dead. Last night, judging by when he was last seen and when our men discovered his body, along with his companions.”

“He should not even have been out last night,” Aredhel blurted from behind her father and clamped her mouth shut when he looked at her over his shoulder.

“Be that as it may,” Fingolfin said, voice hovering on the edge of breaking before he cleared his throat and steeled his expression again.

“We can continue this tomorrow,” Fëanor said and not even Curufin opened his mouth to disagree.

“Whatever you need,” Finrod said, rising and meeting Fingolfin at the door. “Please, do not hesitate to ask.”

“I will not,” Fingolfin said, giving his nephew a warmer smile then he had ever offered to Fëanor or his sons, clasping Finrod on the shoulder.

His three children trailed out after him, Fingon not raising his head to look at anyone, even though Maedhros made an aborted start toward him.

For a moment Finrod and Galadriel stood at the door, staring at the sons of Fëanor and their father who remained sitting, before they looked back at each other. “Good night,” Galadriel said, ducking down through the door, rain illuminated by the street lamps outside. Finrod waited another moment before making his own farewell and stepping out.

Curufin barely waited before he was rising. “Is there anything we should discuss?” he asked, standing tense.

“No,” Fëanor shook his head. “Not tonight.”

“But father,” Caranthir started and Fëanor shook his head.

“Not tonight,” he repeated, and Curufin was already through the door and out into the night. Celegorm startled, from where he had looked distant all night, rushing out into the rain after his brother. He did not have to look far to find Curufin sweeping down a side alley, toward Nargothrond. They caught up to Finrod after only a couple streets.

He, it appeared, had been moving slower than usual, stopping to light a cigarette under the awning of a closed café.  

“Well at least it looks like you are already dressed for a funeral,” Curufin snapped, Celegorm coming to a halt a few steps behind him.

Finrod blinked at him, flicking smoke off the cigarette. “Honestly?” he murmured.

Curufin stepped closer, under the brightly red and white striping awning. “I am not yours to command,” he snarled.

Laughing, the sound low and deep in his throat, Finrod shook his head. “I have never,” he murmured, tilting forward and he looked soft and warm in the streetlamps and rain, but his eyes were hard. “Commanded anything of you.”

Curufin’s lips drew back. “Have you not?”

“Have I ever even asked anything of you?” Finrod asked. “I do not ask you to come to Nargothrond, I do not ask you to my bed, I do not ask you even for your favor. I take what you give me.” Curufin seemed to lean away because Finrod still spoke quietly and evenly, but there was exhaustion in his voice even Celegorm could hear, where he stood several feet away and still in the rain. He tried to focus on the drops of water falling from the brim of his hat instead of his brother and Finrod.

“But tonight,” Curufin said.

“Tonight,” and anger lashed finally into Finrod’s voice. “You were being a petulant child,” and Curufin’s eyes widened. “In the face of their grief.”

“You had no idea Argon was dead,” Curufin replied.

Finrod shrugged, a graceful roll of his shoulders. “No. But I know Fingolfin a great deal better then you do, and it is not so hard to guess if he came in that something had gone wrong. Unlike you, I happened to _know_ Argon.”

“You are not going to start on remembering people—” Curufin started and Finrod shoved him, the motion sudden and Curufin stumbled back.

“Do not,” he hissed and for the second time that night Curufin fell silent. “Hell,” Finrod muttered, dropping the cigarette and stepping on it. “You probably would not even care if any of us died, let alone me. Who am I kidding?”

“Finrod,” Curufin started.

“Good _night_ , Curufin,” Finrod said, stepping around him and back into the rain. It was not, as he said, either a command or a question, but it left Curufin rooted to the spot until after he left.

“Let us get you home,” Celegorm said after Curufin remained unmoving.

Curufin nodded, the motion tight, as was the turn he made before marching back to the apartment. Celegorm got the keys out, only fumbling with his wet fingers for a moment. “I can make you tea,” he started, because Curufin had not spoken.

Celegorm wondered if they had ever fought before, and if that was what he had just seen.

“I do not need your pity or compassion,” Curufin snapped and Celegorm let out a breath.

“Of course you do not,” he said, shrugging it off and holding his hands up. “But if you do not want anything, I am going out.”

“What?” Curufin whirled around. “What do you mean you are going out?”

“What I said,” Celegorm shrugged, already backing for the door.

“So you only came back to make sure, what, I arrived home safely?” Curufin snarled and Celegorm stopped.

He almost opened his mouth to say it would be better if none of them were out alone and realized how monumentally foolish that would be. “I have something to attend to.”

“Your own desires,” Curufin snapped. “Do not _lie_ about that.”

“And if that is the case?” Celegorm shot back. “Is there anything wrong with that, or should I remind you of where you spend your nights?”

Curufin took a step forward. “Where is it you have been going?”

“What?” Celegorm laughed it off. “I have been going where I ever go—which is wherever I like, with whoever I like.”

“You have been disappearing by yourself more frequently,” Curufin said. “You used to come to me to Nargothrond. Did you sleep your way through everyone there?”

“Maybe I simply became sick of following you,” Celegorm said. “It is not really a pleasure, escorting you to your secret lover.”

Something twisted in Curufin’s face and he brushed it off. “So where have you been going. This is much more consistent than usual for you. Almost as if you are seeing the same person.”

“Maybe I have simply been feeling restless,” Celegorm said, hoping the bravado in his voice covered up his panic. “That does not mean by any stretch I have been seeing _one_ person.”

He turned, shaking his head and reached for the door. A hand shot out, Curufin grabbing the fair hair at the base of his neck and yanking back hard. Yelping, Celegorm stumbled backward, a hand coming up to brace against Curufin’s. “You are hiding something from me,” Curufin hissed. “I will find it out.”

“I am hiding nothing,” Celegorm said past gritted teeth. “Not let me _go._ ”

“Far be it for anyone to try and tie you down,” Curufin said, letting go and Celegorm righted himself, snarling.

“I would bite their hand off,” he said and Curufin watched him with a blank face.

“Yes,” he said, almost musing and Celegorm wanted to storm up in front of him, wave his hands around and yell to make Curufin react with more than feigned indifference. “I suspect you would.”

“ _Good night_ , brother,” Celegorm hissed and Curufin tensed, Celegorm realizing too late he was the second person to say those words to his brother that night.

“Get out,” Curufin enunciated carefully and Celegorm did not even remind him that had been his original intent.

He decided not to slam the door on the way out, carefully closing it until he heard the latch instead.

Except there was no reason for him to go out, because he would not find Oromë just be wondering the streets and wishing, Considering he had expected the meeting to go on all night, he had twined his fingers around Oromë’s neck and told him to meet him the next night.

But he was restless, and felt the desire to move pounding under his chest bone.

When he found himself standing in front of a hotel in the rain, watching to see how often the clerk looked up to watch his guests, or if there was a back staircase, he did not realize what he was doing until after his coat was soaked through and he had stood there long enough to look suspicious.

He swore viciously in Noldorian and kicked the wet street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this all one scene? honestly? Ugh. 
> 
> (Just in case anyone was wondering, pretty much all the kids were there except Argon and Finrod and Galadriel were the only two from their side of the family, something which will be fixed the next time they have a gathering, you can trust them on that)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahaha, oh god, I'm sorry, what happened to this story. All I can say is at least it hasn't been a FULL YEAR?
> 
> Also, "Just One Yesterday" by Fall Out Boy is like the fastest way ever to wake up these muses so anytime you're like damn I need more of this story just send me that (Or "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman") on youtube or something. But let's just say I've actually created a couple plot points from Just One Yesterday, if anyone wants to pass the time by guessing what they might be.
> 
> BASICALLY I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG.
> 
> Anyway this chapter is all about doors being closed and one opening.

Maedhros stood outside, his forehead resting against Fingon's door. “I just want to talk to you,” he whispered, more at the wood then trying to reach Fingon again.

He had stopped by three times in the last day, knocking and being ignored. Yet he knew Fingon was home because he had seen him sweep back into his apartment from the fire escape just a few minutes before.

When he was greeted with silence again he started pounding on the door.

Finally, a muffled “go away!” came through the door.

Maedhros considered it. “No,” he said, hitting the door again. “No, Fingon, I'm not going away.”

The door opened abruptly. Fingon was in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to his elbows and his hair was a wild mess around his face. “No? What do you mean, no?”

“Exactly what it sounded like.”

“I want you to leave,” Fingon said. “And for the moment to stop coming back.”

“No,” Maedhros repeated.

“You arrogant son of a bitch,” Fingon snarled.

Used to his brothers, Maedhros shrugged that off. “I want to make sure you're alright.”

“Of course I'm not alright!” Fingon yelled and Maedhros used much of his willpower to keep from looking around to see who might have heard. “My brother is dead and you hanging around isn't going to change that, or make it better.”

“Hiding away isn't going to change anything either,” Maedhros said, his stomach twisted up in knots, even though he kept all of that from his face.

“Just go away,” Fingon said and closed the door in his face.

For a moment, Maedhros considered before he bowed his head in front of the door. “Alright,” he said softly.

-0-

Feanor sat at his table, sorting through accounts for the new house he was finally building. After his sons had finally grown up and all but moved out, he had the means and will to build something bigger than their sprawling and ramshackle apartment, cannibalized out of four different apartments.

He glanced up when the door opened, eyes widening in surprise to see his half-brother. “Fingolfin—” he started to greet before his brother hauled him up by the front of his jacket. Feanor was too shocked to react.

“Did you know?” Fingolfin thundered and Caranthir was there, braced and ready for a fight the instant Fingolfin had laid a hand on his father.

“Know what?” Feanor asked, honestly too surprised to fight back.

“Did you know Morgoth's men were going to be going after that shipment?” Fingolfin demanded, and he looked like he wanted to be shaking Feanor.

“What? Why would you think that?” Feanor asked, bracing his hands over Fingolfin's and trying to shove him back.

“Because originally it was your men who were supposed to be there that night,” and Caranthir's blotchy red face started to pale. “But for some reason they gave it to my men instead. And now my son is _dead_ and all of yours are still alive.”

Feanor's jaw worked. “No,” he settled for finally. “I have no idea.”

“If you're lying to me,” Fingolfin hissed.

“We're supposed to be working together!” Feanor protested. “For all our survival. It would be monumentally stupid for me to have betrayed you so quickly.”

“And yet somehow all I can think about is the story of the scorpion and the frog—”

Feanor shoved at his brother violently, and now that his anger was starting to mellow, Fingolfin let go and stepped back. “I am not a scorpion,” Feanor snarled.

“You could have fooled everyone,” Fingolfin said, smoothing down the front of his jacket and Feanor's lips drew back in scorn.

“I did nothing to harm your son,” Feanor said, not adding that he might have in the past. “It was not my fault. It was a gesture at the time to promote us working together.”

Fingolfin stared at him, eyes heavy with grief before he finally nodded, a barely there motion. It was obvious he still did not quite believe his brother. “I hope for all our sake's you are not lying.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“You actually have every reason,” Fingolfin said, turning and leaving as abruptly as he had come.

When the door closed, Caranthir turned to his father. “Did you?” he asked, his voice low.

Feanor's eyes slid over to his son. “Excuse you?”

“Did you play his men?” Caranthir asked, his posture loose and Feanor almost snarled at him too.

“Does everyone have such little faith in me?”

“If they do, it's because you made it so,” Caranthir said and before his father could kick him out he gathered up his own papers and slid through the door.

-0-

Finrod stopped when he found Ulmo sitting on his front doorstep in the middle of the afternoon.

“To what do I owe this?” he asked, scowling. “Twice in such a short amount of time. I hope you don't think you have something to gain by this.”

“What could I have?” Ulmo asked, sitting on a crate with his back to the wall.

“I couldn't tell you,” Finrod said, and fumbled with his keys. He almost blushed, offended at himself for the mistake. He jammed them into the lock, fully intending to close the door in Ulmo's face. “You're not here during business hours. Which means you think you have another reason worth coming.”

“I'm concerned,” Ulmo admitted after a beat.

“I can take care of myself,” Finrod snapped.

Ulmo paused for a long moment, bowing his head slightly before forcing it back up and meeting Finrod's angry gaze. “I know you can,” he said. “But this bigger.”

“Because you're afraid of your cousin,” Finrod said. “Sad, isn't it?”

Ulmo rose to his feet, leaning his arm against the wall and not quite boxing Finrod in. “No. He's coming after your family.”

“He did before too.”

“And he's had several years to brood on how he best wants to destroy you,” Ulmo said.

“I have told you,” Finrod said, turning to glare at him. “I can take care of myself.”

“You have a pathological need to do that, yes,” Ulmo said and looked like he regretted it almost instantly. “I came because I have information,” he said, as Finrod's body tensed. “Morgoth's gang has been attacking anyone entering or leaving the city that belong to gangs. They're also moving on their old territory along the docks and the seashore.”

“Which includes here,” Finrod said.

“Yes,” Ulmo said quietly and there was the weight of years between them a moment, when Ulmo had insisted Finrod find somewhere else and it had only made him that much more determined to build his dream there.

“I can defend it,” Finrod said.

“Finrod, all I want is to know that somewhere you're safe—”

“Then you should have turned your attention somewhere else,” Finrod said, slamming the door open and leaving Ulmo there.

-0-

Oromë tensed when he saw Celegorm. He strolled down the street toward him, hands in his pockets and with a casual grin on his face, eyes roving around the street.

But somehow it was still painfully obvious to Orome he was heading right for him, despite the fact it was the middle of the day and the streets around them were crowded. When Celegorm had almost reached him, Oromë almost turned around and ran. Instead he came to a stop, leaning casually against a wall.

“Have a light, copper?” Celegorm asked, and the grin was almost too much for Oromë to handle. He wanted to reach his hands out, twine them in his hair and kiss him until they were both breathless and Celegorm was compliant and soft in his hands.

“For the likes of you?” he asked instead, tone unaffected.

“If you could,” Celegorm smirked and Oromë riffled through his pockets, finding some matches and handing them over. When Celegorm accepted them, still with that smirk at the corners of his mouth, Oromë found himself being handed something in the same moment.

In the middle of the street, surrounded by unknowing passerbys, he found himself holding a heavy metal key to an old style hotel. His eyes widened, and anyone paying attention would know something else had happened but he turned his head to stare at Celegorm, who lit a cigarette with one of Oromë's matches like it was nothing.

“You can't be serious,” he whispered.

“I am,” Celegorm said around the cigarette, and his eyes were bright when he looked over. He looked too desperate for daylight and Oromë felt the ache deep in his chest.

“I won't come.”

“Yeah?” Celegorm breathed and his mouth hung open.

“This is foolhardy,” Oromë hissed and turned away. His heart beat too fast in his chest and he refused to look back. Even so he slid the key into his pocket.

“Come tonight,” Celegorm said, his head tilted away and so quiet Oromë almost didn't hear.

Perhaps if Celegorm hadn't said that, Oromë might have been able to resist. But the quiet whisper, almost lost on the street haunted Oromë the whole day. He sat at his desk, idly twirling a pen, thinking about the long line of Celegorm's body, the arch of his throat and felt like he had gone insane months ago and just had taken this long to notice.

He thought about Celegorm grinning as he said had sex with someone else in an alley, not even a week ago. The idea of another's hands on Celegorm made his blood boil and he tried to remind himself he had no right to Celegorm. They were engaged in a destructive stupid affair that would end as easily as it had begun.

There was nothing between them except too much passion and a reckless streak.

He remembered his cousin, bright with his new fiancee hanging off his arm, of his sister and the quiet way her husband looked at her. Neither of those came close to whatever he and Celegorm did. They were desperation in the dark corners of the night, nothing more.

He wanted to touch and mark Celegorm so he would forget everyone else that had touched him.

Groaning, Oromë set his pen down and buried his face in his hands.

He found himself in front of the hotel whose name was stamped on the key. It was middle of the road, not fancy or ornate but neither was it the ancient dump Oromë had been expecting. It was in the between, and utterly unremarkable for it.

The man behind the counter nodded at him and turned away, and there was almost no one in the hallways. Oromë glanced around, constantly scanning for anyone that might recognize him.

His foot hovering over the stair to the next floor, he almost turned around and left. Instead he found the room, on the fourth floor and tucked into a corner with only one other doorway obvious. It was as out of the way as a hotel room ever was.

Oromë rested his hand on the door, because this went beyond what he had been willing to do before. Not to mention it could easily be a trap. Lure the cop into a sense of security and strike him with his guard—and possibly his pants—down.

He drew his gun, putting his back to the wall before pushing the door open and peeking in. When there was no attack he stepped inside, Celegorm sitting in the middle of the bed and watching the door intently.

“This was foolish,” Oromë said, setting the gun down and Celegorm followed it with his eyes.

“You said you wouldn't do it any other way,” Celegorm said, spreading his arms and his legs were already sprawled out across the bed. Oromë stared at them, and swallowed hard.

“Lock the door,” Celegorm said instead.

“You said you could have this with anyone,” Oromë said and he had already locked the door so he advanced on the bed instead, dropping his jacket on a chair that was for some reason next to the bed. Celegorm followed his every movement with wide eyes, his mouth twitching. “You're taking quite a risk.”

“So are you,” Celegorm said, and he had already shed most of his outer layers, only in his thin shirt and pants and Oromë reached down, fingers hooking in Celegorm's belt and dragging him across the bed to the edge. Leaning down, he covered his mouth, swallowing the whimper as he slowly unbuckled the belt.

“You're foolish,” Oromë said and Celegorm laughed, arching up against him and Oromë could feel the little hitches of breath against his chest.

“Fuck,” he said, the edge of a laugh still there. “Just fuck me.”

Oromë couldn't breathe for a second. For a second his fingers stilled, scared to keep going before he yanked Celegorm's shirt over his head, too impatient to unbutton it and Celegorm threw himself on his back, inviting Oromë to come down with him.

And he did, wandering the whole time when he had lost his mind.

 


	12. Chapter 12

It felt too much like a feast had been laid in front of him, as Oromë drove Celegorm through one orgasm and then another. Celegorm egged him on, rolling onto his stomach and rising to his knees, and he couldn't slow down, couldn't take it easy like he wanted, because he _needed_.

They fell asleep tangled together without realizing that's what they were doing. Oromë's thoughts had gone to the door and he'd been asleep in the next moment.

In the middle of the night, sometime between the hours of two and three after they had slept and woken each other again, he rolled Celegorm onto his back, protesting the whole time. “Don't, this isn't—” Celegorm said and Oromë silenced him with a kiss.

“This isn't about this,” Celegorm got out when Oromë drew back and Celegorm grabbed at his shoulders. “Don't—” and Oromë kissed the side of his neck and Celegorm's protests were drowned in a long moan as Oromë moved inside him, slow and steady. “Stop treating me—” he started again and trailed off in another moan, this one more high pitched. He slammed a hand over his mouth, glaring at Oromë who could only smile back at him as he braced his hands on either side of his head.

No matter what Celegorm pleaded or snarled behind his fingers, Oromë kept his movements slow and steady, building up until Celegorm writhed beneath him cursing in every language he seemed to know, his pale hair like a dandelion around his head and full of static from the pillow. Oromë thought he caught Sindarian in among the Noldorian and he leaned down again to kiss Celegorm's open mouth.

Celegorm's fingers came up to dig into the back of his skull and Oromë groaned against him. “Darling,” he said softly into the space between their pants and Celegorm bit his shoulder hard to keep from screaming his release.

They fell asleep again, tangled together and not daring to say anything.

Oromë woke up to Celegorm straddling him, sinking slowly down and his hands went up before he was even awake to brace on his hips. Celegorm took him hard and fast like he was trying to prove something and Oromë let him.

Celegorm fell asleep again and Oromë did not. For a while he watched the other sleep, hair a mess and dangling into his face as he breathed deeply.

He left, getting dressed quietly, and closing the door softly behind himself.

Breathing the cool air of the dawn, he shoved his hands into his pockets and took a winding path back through the city.

-0-

Sauron did not look side to side as he strolled through Angband. There were people drinking all around him, in the dark shadows of the cavernous warehouse. It had been large to begin with, but Morgoth had only expanded it downward, until there was almost a labyrinth underneath the original building.

It was dark and it was twisted and Sauron had laughed when he first saw the plans.

“Come have a drink,” he heard somewhere to his left and when he realized who spoke he could not just pass by. He knew too well that Gothmog was perhaps his only true rival in the gang, and that created an odd sort of respect. At any rate, he disliked to insult him the way he did everyone else.

So Sauron turned, coming to a stop in front of Gothmog and barely flickering his eyes at the way Glaurung was sprawled in his lap, a bottle of moonshine in one hand. There was a finer brandy that had actually been smuggled in from Europe on the table, but Glaurung seemed content with the cheap knock off.

Sauron almost sneered but kept a blank expression on his face.

“I am busy,” he said and Glaurung laughed.

“Always busy,” he mocked. “You never have time for us. To little for you, too small time?”

“You are the one who called yourself small time,” Sauron said after a beat. “Not me.”

Glaurung scowled at him.

“But why not join us?” Gothmog said.

“I do not wish too,” Sauron returned, annoyance finally leaking into his voice.

“Are you worried about Morgoth?” Glaurung asked, and there was something in the tone that made Sauron at least realize there had been another layer to Gothmog's invitation and it made Glaurung angry. His spine tensed and nothing showed on his face.

There was something vicious and bitter in Gothmog's eyes and if Sauron hadn't been avoiding him for the years Morgoth was in jail, maybe he would have been less blind sighted.

“Surely,” Gothmog laughed, too sharp and Sauron almost turned and left. “You do not think he is loyal to you?”

Sauron still didn't move as Glaurung chuckled, blond hair lank around his face. “Ah, but t he master has different rules from the slave.”

Sauron's eyes snapped to him and then he turned his head obviously back to Gothmog, dismissing Glaurung because he knew it made him angry. “It is not about him being loyal to me, or I to him. I am busy tonight.”

“As every night,” Gothmog said, almost a question and for once Sauron had no idea how to proceed. The roof of Angband felt too close above his head.

“Perhaps,” he said instead, hedging his bets and needing only to leave.

“I don't believe you,” Gothmog said and Glaurung shifted, still sprawled half in his lap.

For a second Sauron wondered about the invitation, if it included Glaurung and if he had agreed to it. If he had, then he had much more attachment to Gothmog than Sauron had realized. That might prove dangerous and he would have to keep his eye on them.

For a second, he wondered what it would be like to accept the invitation, to pretend for a second that another's touch was not even worse than Morgoth's own.

“Believe what you want,” he said and turned away, trying his hardest to block everyone else out again.

Finally he reached the stairs to the lowest level, letting out a breath.

Opening Morgoth's door, he strolled in, sitting on the edge of Morgoth's desk like he knew he liked. It displayed his lean and long form well. “Are we to attack?”

“Soon,” Morgoth said.

“Who is our first target?” Sauron asked. “There are so many Noldorians.”

He already knew the answer but asked anyway.

But instead, Morgoth glanced up at him. “Who would your propose?”

“What?” Sauron blinked, quickly gathering himself back up. “Fëanor has been a thorn in your side a long time. His sons are weaker, for they are half scattered. But Finrod, is young and has territory that borders our own. He may be easier to knock off the board without the same support as Fëanor and his brood.”

“Interesting choice,” Morgoth said and there was a scornful smile hidden somewhere at the corners of his mouth. “Is it because some have compared his beauty to yours?”

Sauron tensed. “It is because he is exposed.”

“Fëanor first,” Morgoth decided, and turned his chair, drawing Sauron closer and Sauron obediently slid across the desk so that his knees were jammed up in Morgoth's chair. “We'll knock his empire down.”

“As long as you can avoid your family that long,” Sauron said, too cheeky and barely winced when Morgoth dug his fingers too hard into his hips.

“I should make you bleed for that one,” Morgoth said and when he kissed Sauron, he spared a thought for Gothmog and the flicker in his eyes.

-0-

Celegorm woke up alone and couldn't figure out why he was angry about it.

But there was a jitter under his skin and he couldn't seem to stop the whole day, moving too fast and too violently. Most people avoided him on the street and normally he would have laughed at that, cruel and vicious.

But he thought of Oromë's hands, warm and heavy on his waist, and the careful way he'd whispered “darling” and he wanted to punch a wall.

He didn't bother going home to Curufin that day.

Yet somehow that night found him in Nargothrond.

“Cousin,” Finrod said, his eyes widening and squinting behind him like he expected Curufin to appear at any moment.

“Shit,” Celegorm decided, because Doriath would have been a better plan than this.

“Ah,” Finrod said, as if just from that he understood something. “Would you like a drink, cousin?”

“Yes,” Celegorm said too quickly, and Bëor stood stiff behind Finrod, dark circles of stress under his eyes. “I would.”

“But I presume you won't want to talk about it,” and Finrod was actually gesturing him to his private quarters. Celegorm almost dug his heels in then, not wanting to see the room he knew Curufin spent so many nights in. But he followed his cousin and collapsed in the chair Finrod pointed to.

“I don't want to talk about it,” he said, and Finrod kindly handed him a full tumbler of whiskey. “Huh. You are not stingy.”

“This is not a place for it,” Finrod agreed with almost a smile.

“I suppose not,” Celegorm allowed after a beat and then tried to focus his gaze on Finrod. “My brother—”

“I see you do not feel like discussing your own problems, only mine,” Finrod said.

“He hasn't come by since the meeting,” Celegorm said.

Finrod shrugged, a graceful roll of his shoulders. “That is his choice.”

“And you wait for him because he's the one who has to make the choice right?” Celegorm said. “You're so damned careful with him it even extends to never crowding him, it's about his wants and when he wants it.”

“You sound remarkably angry about that,” Finrod said, tone mild.

“It's pathetic,” Celegorm said and Finrod's brows just went up. “And I don't get it.”

“I take what I can get,” Finrod said softly. “Because it's what I'm wiling to give too.”

“So when he figures it out and does come crawling back, you'll accept him then but not before?” Celegorm said, and his glass was empty. He wondered when exactly he had achieved that.

“Basically,” Finrod agreed.

“You are fucked up,” Celegorm decided.

“So, apparently, are you,” Finrod pointed out. “So what made you come here? Concern for your brother?”

“You have good booze,” Celegorm said instead and drained the glass when Finrod refilled it.

-0-

It was a week later when Oromë found himself staring down a drunk man in the middle of the street. He usually did not come this close to Little Beleriand but there were more reports of Morgoth and here he was, accosted by a drunk instead of doing his job.

He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to wait the ranting out.

“And if we had just kept people like you in chains,” the drunk was saying and Oromë felt his eye brows arch up as the ranting took another turn. He was content for the moment to let him dig his own hole when suddenly there was a flash and before he could react, Celegorm had appeared, punching the man in the face.

“You shut your disgusting mouth,” he snarled and Oromë blinked, mouth opening in surprise.

“What?” the drunk started. “You're no better, you goddamn Noldorian. But now you're a ne—” and before he could finish, Celegorm had punched him again, and they were brawling in the street now.

Oromë hadn't seen Celegorm since he'd closed the door behind himself, and now he was fighting because of Oromë and he was too shocked at first to move.

Finally, he moved between them, using his bulk to push them apart. “You're both under arrest,” he said, keeping his voice even and Celegorm gaped at him.

“What?” he yelped.

“You both were fighting and disturbing the peace,” he said instead, one of his hands on the back of Celegorm's jacket. He wanted to smooth the fabric down, to touch, and there was the ghost of sensation along his whole arm.

Instead he dragged them both to the prison and several officers looked up in surprise, the drunk still spewing racist and filthy things, Celegorm twisting against Oromë's other arm, like he wanted to continue the fight.

“What's this?” Tulkas asked, because he had been hovering even more than usual.

“They got into a fight,” Oromë said and looked at Celegorm. For once he had actually seen it with his own eyes and Celegorm seemed to be realizing that too. There was betrayal and anger mixed up in there too.

“Because he's a bigot!” Celegorm yelled. “Aren't you hearing the things he's saying about you?” As soon as the words were out, Celegorm froze. Oromë froze, feeling cold all over. 

Oromë stared at him, eyes too wide and realized everyone else had practically fallen silent. “And Noldorians,” Celegorm added after a beat. “What he's saying about everyone that isn't him,” and he was burying his panic under anger.

“I don't need a petty criminal to defend my honor,” Oromë said. “I'm not a dame. And there is nothing between us anyway.” He wanted to shake Celegorm, demand to know why this had seemed like a good idea to put them in this situation they could not win. 

Celegorm's eyes flashed. “I don't like people who think they can get away with being damned Klan members in the middle of the street!” Oromë's fingers itched and he did not move.

“Book them for disturbing the peace,” Oromë said instead, voice perfectly calm and sometime in the conversation Celegorm had started shaking. At least the man started speaking again, defending himself and his views, and Tulkas' stormy expression meant he was distracted.

With everyone's attention there, Oromë let himself just stare at Celegorm, whose face seemed to be changing with some slowly dawning horror.

Catching the eye of the booking officer, Oromë turned and walked away.

 


	13. Chapter 13

“Hey, you!” a voice called behind him and even though Curufin recognized it in a vague way, he kept walking. Even if walking had not produced the results he was looking for, at least it kept him moving and not _thinking_ too hard about how he was going to wring his brother's lovely neck.

“Curufin!” the voice yelled. “You fucking Fëanorian, I'm talking to you.”

Finally he stopped and turned. “ Aredhel,” he greeted mildly, even as he bristled at the way she had addressed him on the street.

Her bristly hair was pulled brutally back and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Where is your brother?”

“I'm not his keeper,” he snapped.

“Which means you don't know, doesn't it?” she asked.

“I do not have to stand here speaking to you,” Curufin said and when he started to turn, her hand darted out and grabbed his arm, yanking him back.

“I care about him too,” she said. “The rumors are already all the way across town. What the hell is this about him defending a cop?”

“I don't know,” Curufin grit out.

“You must be losing your mind,” she said after a beat.

“If you are quite done judging me—”

“It's hard to ever be done doing that,” she said snidely.

“Just because you and Celegorm were childhood friends for some reason I have never been able to fathom—”

“That's not past tense you bastard—”

“Does not mean I owe you anything, including an explanation of his actions.”

They stared each other down, daring the other to look away first. “I care about him too,” she said finally, crossing her arms over her chest. “I just want to make sure he's safe.”

“Are any of us safe?” Curufin shot back.

“I want to make sure he isn't in more of a mess than he usually is,” she amended. “These rumors could be bad for him—and the rest of your family. No one here likes cops.”

“Do not think I am not aware,” Curufin ground out, because he had punched the messenger who first brought the rumors to his attention, mere hours after whenever Celegorm had been taken to the station. The man was simply a lackey of Fëanor's and had hardly deserved that.

Aredhel's mouth narrowed, but she seemed to accept that was as most as she was likely to get. “I would appreciate it if you find out anything more,” she said, obviously expecting nothing.

“I am certain I won't,” Curufin said, already turning away and this time she did not try to pull him back, letting him leave. He almost appreciated the diversion for a moment from his own worry. Celegorm was impulsive and always had been, and it was not like he did not often find himself locked up over night. But that was all different from protecting a _cop_ , the enemy of their enemy who was still not their friend.

Curufin's hands curled and uncurled at his sides as he walked because the pieces of Celegorm's secrets were not adding up.

-0-

Mablung looked up from lighting his cigarette to find Celegorm on the other end of the alley, looking intent and angry. “Ah, so you're not dead,” he remarked. “You should hear the rumors.”

“I really don't want to,” Celegorm said, plucking the cigarette out of Mablung's fingers.

“You must have just gotten out,” Mablung remarked. “Not going back to your family yet?”

“You know what?” Celegorm said, eyes narrowed. “I would greatly prefer you to shut up.”

“That's not what you come here for,” Mablung said, and Celegorm's eyes daring to him was the only warning he got before he was slammed back against the wall, Celegorm's mouth warm and full of smoke pressed against his.

Mablung swallowed the smoke and laughed, throwing his head back when Celegorm moved down to bite his throat, leaving red marks that would be obvious no matter what sort of collar he wore.

“Fuck you, Noldo,” he said and Celegorm's fingers were already digging into the back of his pants.

“That's the intent, I think,” Celegorm said.

Usually they at least seemed to go through the motions of fighting first before getting to what they wanted—be it more fighting or something more like this. But Mablung just groaned and grabbed Celegorm's hair, pulling him closer.

“Is that what you want, Noldorian?” he breathed, air from his lungs stirring Celegorm's almost white hair and Celegorm shivered, dragging his teeth against the hollow of his throat. “You're like a damned animal.”

“Yeah,” Celegorm said and let Mablung shove him across the alley, into the wall across the way.

“Uncontrolled, wild, and sometimes stupid,” Mablung said and Celegorm turned his head to bite his hand. “And biting the hand that feeds you.”

“I'm sorry, do you feed me?” Celegorm asked, eyes narrowed.

“I'm giving you this aren't I?” Mablung said, and he had his fingers twisted up in Celegorm's hands, pinning him to the wall. Celegorm sucked in deep and uneven breaths and that was different enough Mablung should have paid attention.

But it wasn't until he slid his leg between Celegorm's thighs that Celegorm tensed and started swearing, jerking his hands against Mablung's grip and his breathing increasing rapidly.

“What the hell?” Mablung asked and Celegorm started twisting, not to get closer or to fight but just to get away.

“Shit fuck _damn_ ,” Celegorm said and Mablung stepped back, watching Celegorm warily like he expected an attack.

“Noldo, you're acting crazier than usual.”

“There is no reason this shouldn't be working!” Celegorm snarled, and there was actual fear in his eyes. “You and me, we've always done this. Fighting and fucking and it doesn't mean a thing.”

“I don't need you to remind me of the status quo,” Mablung said, annoyed and he still ached with want. Not even for Celegorm, except that he was _there_. “It's what is has been and if it's changing that's because of you.”

“Why can't I do this?” Celegorm asked. “Why do I feel,” and he shook his head, furiously hitting his balled up fists on the wall behind him.

“Ah,” Mablung said and couldn't stop the angry smirk from sliding onto his face. “Is it possible you've fallen in love?”

There was something in the way that Celegorm froze, eyes wide on Mablung's face that answered everything he needed to know. “Like hell,” Celegorm said instead.

“Do they love you?” Mablung mocked. “Are they as lost as you? Do they even know they have you wrapped around their fingers? You're so broken on them you can't even fuck anyone else? Think they're the same or do they have their own secret boys they go to when you aren't there—”

He expected the punch and was braced for it. “So that's a no?” he asked, and the sloppy hook to his chin made his head crack back. He threw his weight at Celegorm's middle, shoving him back into the wall and Celegorm twisted in his grasp, shoulder digging into his collarbone.

They grappled, there against the wall until Mablung had Celegorm in a pin against the wall, knowing he couldn't hold him there for long. “It's that cop isn't it?” Mablung asked, breath puffing into Celegorm's ear and Celegorm hissed. “The one you couldn't stop staring at. You're so messed up you can't sleep with anyone else but have you even had him?”

“I wouldn't tell you,” Celegorm said, and he was twisting, his hands almost braced against the wall.

“It's all over town, that you defended him in broad daylight,” Mablung said. “You're over the damned moon. Does he even love you? Does he touch you like you want or are you just pining?”

“He,” Celegorm started and shoved back, Mablung hitting the opposite wall with the force or it and Celegorm whirled on him. “You're off base, you're wrong—”

“Like hell I am,” Mablung laughed until Celegorm punched him in the stomach, brutally cutting off his air. “You've gone and fallen in love. At least you're not going to be easy about something like that.”

“I'm not in love,” Celegorm said, eyes wild.

“Ah, sweet heart,” Mablung said, barely getting his block up in time.

-0-

Caranthir opened the door and arched his brows at Celegorm on the other side. “Ah. So you live. Lucky that our other brothers aren't here.”

“You think that was luck?” Celegorm asked, rubbing his already bloody sleeve under his nose.

“So you staked us out long enough to know Maglor just left and Maedhros hasn't been here?” Caranthir said. “You might as well get in before anyone sees you then.”

“This is why you're my favorite brother.”

“Right,” Caranthir said. “Everyone here knows that's a lie. I'm just the brother everyone comes to when you've managed to walk yourself into the worst situation. Want to explain what happened?”

“Not really,” Celegorm said.

“Figured not,” Caranthir said. “Which is why you came here of all places.”

Celegorm paused, in the center of Maglor and Maedhros' living room, and Caranthir handed him a tissue to staunch his bleeding nose. “We can start with the basics of who you got into a fight with,” Caranthir said.

Celegorm eyed him darkly before shrugging. “Mablung,” he said and Caranthir arched his brows, sitting down across from his brother.

“Of course,” he said, shaking his head. “Why not mess with Doriath after you've already made a mess of things?”

“They're an easy target,” Celegorm shrugged and Caranthir filed that lecture away for later.

“So now the more important question,” he said, steepling his fingers and Celegorm glared at him. “Tell me about these rumors.”

“Oh get out.”

“This is where I live at the moment,” Caranthir said mildly. “You know, to restore your honor you could just kill the cop in question.”

Celegorm's entire body jerked at Caranthir's casual suggestion. “Are you mad?” he hissed and Caranthir stared at him. That answered more than he would have gotten out of hours of questions. “I would never,” and Celegorm snapped his mouth shut.

“No,” Caranthir agreed. “Killing a cop would be a bad idea. It's one thing for us to kill each other over booze, isn't it? But cops, that's heat we don't need.”

“You're a bastard,” Celegorm hissed.

“You need a plan,” Caranthir said. “Some way of downplaying everything that happened. Or something stupid and rash to distract everyone.”

“Why is everyone so concerned about what I do?” Celegorm asked. “The whole neighborhood is talking about it?”

“Romantic, isn't it?” Caranthir said and Celegorm gaped at him. “The cop and the hereditary gangster.”

“You're as much off your rocker as Mablung,” Celegorm breathed.

“But you're right, most people would not look at it from the romance angle,” Caranthir said breezily. “Which is the only reason you'll likely to be able to distract people from this. I suggest avoiding him for a while.”

“You're making assumptions,” Celegorm said.

“And you're doing an awful job and denying them,” Caranthir shot back and Celegorm clicked his jaw shut sharply enough Caranthir could hear it. “Do you want to explain it to me, brother?”

For a moment Celegorm stared at him, before slowly shaking his head and Caranthir sighed.

“I need you to know,” he said softly. “I'm on your side.”

“Even about something like this?” Celegorm asked.

“Especially for something like this,” Caranthir said. “Curufin for instance, will not be,” and Celegorm winced, looking away.

“Then why are you?”

“Someone has to be,” Caranthir shrugged, and he didn't say anything about those early years when it had been them, Celegorm with his grin and affectionate tackles before Curufin had come along and stolen all his attention away. Caranthir had never begrudged his little brother Celegorm's utter loyalty, but he did begrudge how much Celegorm seemed to have forgotten.

Finally Celegorm sank into the seat across from him. “You're not angry.”

Caranthir shrugged. “Give me a reason to be, and I will,” he said, and Celegorm grinned at him, the first such expression since he entered the apartment. “Actually, no you have given me a reason to be. But it's so pathetic and oddly romantic too.”

“Shut your mouth,” Celegorm muttered.

Caranthir paused, hovering on the edge of understanding. “You are, though, aren't you?” he asked.

“If you say in love with him—”

“But he has messed up your head.”

“Yeah,” Celegorm admitted finally.

“And you couldn't just remove the conflict?” Caranthir asked again.

“Damn you,” Celegorm growled.

Shrugging, Caranthir braced his elbows on his knees. “When will any of my brothers learn to do something in halves?”

“Speak for yourself.”

“You will need a plan to distract the others,” Caranthir said. “Some excuse that's anything that's not the truth.”

When Celegorm's eyes rose to met his, they were clear and determined. “Which you won't leave me hanging on.”

“What kind of brother would I be?”

-0-

Nerdanel stopped in front of her own door, staring at the red stains on it.

For a second she couldn't breathe, before carefully setting aside the order she had gone to the butchers for and pushing the door open. “Fëanor?” she called, entering the apartment, her hands going to the small pistol she kept on herself at all times, following the red spots to where a letter was set carefully in the middle of their dining room table.

For a second she stared at it, and the flowing script on the front before opening it to find several developed photographs of a site in the forests, gunned out cars and bodies strewn around it.

“We suggest stopping your attempts to smuggle inside the city,” the back of one photograph said and she carefully set it all down before walking out of the apartment and down the stairs, waiting inside the doorway of the building for Fëanor to return home.

“Sweetheart?” he asked, not far behind her.

“Your enemy has returned,” she said.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sorta feels like a filler chapter while I sort out plot forgive me. 
> 
> Also have been doing a crash course on civil rights so if you think Orome's blackness wasn't going to keep mattering you are wrong because holy shit.

“So you're still alive then,” Curufin said, meeting Celegorm at the door to their father's apartment.

“Fuck you,” Celegorm said with no heat behind it, shoving the door open.

“You've been avoiding—”

“Everyone,” Celegorm said as everyone already gathered turned to stare at him aside from Caranthir who suddenly found the ceiling fascinating.

“Yes, I can see that,” Curufin said, carefully hanging his hat by the doorway.

“Celegorm,” Fëanor said, half a greeting and half a rebuke.

“Father,” Celegorm said, tone forcibly light as Nerdanel stepped forward, taking Celegorm's hand in one of hers and drawing him forward.

“This isn't the time,” she said. “I don't care what you aren't telling me, but this isn't the time.”

“We're not,” Celegorm started.

“Everyone in Littler Beleriand has heard about our son defending a police officer,” Fëanor insisted. “It's not something we could possibly—”

“Now isn't the time,” Nerdanel repeated and Maedhros still had not looked up from where he sat on a plush chair, his hands folded in front of him.

“We should send those pictures to Fingolfin,” he said.

“They're of his dead son,” Fëanor said. “I cannot imagine him appreciating it much.”

“Why were they sent to us?” Caranthir asked. “It seems like it should have been sent to him in that case.”

“Morgoth seems to have a particular dislike of father,” Curufin said and something funny happened on Fëanor's face before he smoothed it back out again.

“We should still show him,” Maedhros said.

Maglor rested his hand on Maedhros' shoulder, confusion flittering across his face. “It would be an awful way to think of your youngest son,” Fëanor said.

“Will you at least tell him of the threat?” Maedhros demanded.

Fëanor looked at his oldest son before turning abruptly to Caranthir. “I need you to get into contact with your... friends on the east.”

“The—you don't like my contacts,” Caranthir said. “For that matter I hardly like them either.”

“I want to know if they know anything,” Fëanor said.

“Is it knowledge you're after or allies?” Caranthir asked. “They tend to like it if you're upfront about those things.”

Fëanor scowled before he finally nodded. “Somehow I suspect we will need allies before this is over.” When Maedhros stared at him too long, he added. “Beyond the ones we have already acquired.”

For a while they went back and forth, going over the information they already have about Morgoth before the informal meeting started to break up, Caranthir making it out the door first. Celegorm tried his hardest to be the second out, but Curufin blocked his path.

“You haven't come home,” he said, and Nerdanel glanced over.

“I got a change of clothes or five,” Celegorm said.

“If you're avoiding me it must mean something has happened,” Curufin said and Celegorm pushed past him, ignoring the looks from both his parents. “There's something you do not wish me to find out.”

“Maybe I just wanted to avoid you thinking that,” Celegorm said.

“Then you would have come home,” Curufin said, hoping down the stairs after him. “That—woman—even stopped me on the street to demand what happened to you. With you.”

“She has a name!” Celegorm said, turning around, halfway down a flight of stairs. “Do you think if you never speak her name you will be able to pretend she does not exist? Will that make you feel better about the fact there are people outside of you and our brothers who cares about me?”

“Why did you defend a cop?” Curufin asked and a pin could have dropped in the stairwell.

“I didn't,” Celegorm said after a beat.

“Do not lie,” Curufin snapped.

“It was not about him,” Celegorm said. “It was about the asshole on the street running his mouth. The cop just—happened to be there.”

“Do you think I am stupid?” Curufin asked.

“No,” Celegorm said.

“You attacked someone in front of a cop!” Curufin said. “It's a miracle you were not kept longer. Not to mention the stories I have heard from the scene—”

“He was being racist,” Celegorm hissed. “That's all I cared about—”

“In the middle of a street in the middle of the day in front of the police!” Curufin yelled and Celegorm stared at him, eyes flickering up the stairs before he turned and started down again. “Are you walking away from me?”

“You're the one yelling,” Celegorm said and Curufin took the stairs two at a time after him.

“You have not given me a satisfactory answer,” Curufin insisted.

Celegorm shrugged, throwing the door of the building open and stalking outside. “Take what you are given, brother.”

“You have compromised this entire family's reputation—”

“Like hell I have,” Celegorm said. “I am the hot head, remember? The wild card, the angry and vicious one. They had nothing to pin on me—and I think the damn chief wanted to pat me on the back as much as he wanted to throw me into a cell and toss the key into the river. The man adores his black officer.”

“And you and he—”

“For fuck's sake,” Celegorm said, turning back around. “There is no me and him. There never was. It was chance that he was the one there.”

“You have been acting odd,” Curufin said and Celegorm laughed, a harsh and bitter sound.

“And you think—what? That I am taking up with some cop? Do you not know me at all brother?”

“I know you are reckless and stupid,” Curufin said.

“And have you ever known me to have an affair that lasted more than one night?” When Curufin looked at him, stricken, Celegorm shrugged. “You know as well as I do that was where you were about to go. You forget it is you who entangled yourself in something like that. If you think that is my problem you are wrong. And if you think it was with someone like him, you are even more wrong.”

“You must be careful,” Curufin said.

“We are all on our best behavior,” Celegorm said snidely and when he turned away, Curufin did not call him back.

-0-

Sitting on the low wall across from the police station, Mablung dropped another cigarette on the ground, snubbing it out with his toe.

He probably had other places to be, but Beleg was busy with the boy and there were no jobs coming down the pipeline. And he could not shake the frantic expression in Celegorm's eyes. The way he shook and attacked in the same breath because Mablung had mentioned this cop—

Finally, the cop in question stepped outside and Mablung straightened, following him with his eyes.

The man looked exhausted, like his broad frame was too much to keep upright as he trudged down the street. When he turned the corner, Mablung slid off the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets, strolling after him. He kept his pace casual and weaved his way through food traffic without ever acting like he was trying to keep the cop in his sights.

He was physically attractive, Mablung would never not give him that. His skin was also significantly darker than Mablung's own.

Mablung had always vaguely decided that Celegorm was as racist as his father.

Lighting another cigarette as he walked, Mablung wished the man would do something—anything—to explain Celegorm's actions. A vague notion had driven him here and he already regretted it. He did not have the time or resources to dedicate to following this man enough to solve the mystery of Celegorm.

He was just about to turn and go the other way when the cop stopped in front of a car, a beat down and small model, Celegorm perched on top of it. Eyes widening and hoping Celegorm had not seen him, Mablung ducked into the nearest alley.

-0-

“What are you doing?” Oromë asked, circles under his eyes.

Celegorm shrugged. “This is your car isn't it?”

“Yes,” Oromë said, voice flat. “Which means I must be dreaming because you wouldn't be so stupid.”

Celegorm looked up and down the road before he hopped down. “We need to talk,” he said, and Oromë watched his throat bob as he swallowed, head tilted back to look at Oromë's face.

“Do we?” Oromë managed.

“Do not play—whatever you are with me,” Celegorm said.

“Fine,” Oromë said and walked away, away from his building because there was something too tight in his chest, too strange to handle about the thought of Celegorm so close to his home.

He did not turn around until they were several blocks away and tucked into an alley, the streetlight barely shedding any light on them. “And how is your reputation?”

“I stamped, I yelled, I reminded everyone of what a wildcard I am,” Celegorm said. “I'm fine. Was that concern on your part?” And it was clear he meant it to be teasing but there was something wrong in his eyes.

“You involved me in it,” Oromë said. “What were you _thinking_?”

“That men like that shouldn't be able to—” Celegorm started, heated and Oromë's fingers ached.

“I've heard worse,” Oromë said. “From your father no less.”

Celegorm looked like he had been struck before he recovered. “I am _not—_ ”

“You forced me to arrest you,” Oromë said and Celegorm tensed before he leaned back. “You associated us in broad daylight.”

“Why did you stand there and take that from him?” Celegorm asked.

“Are you really that stupid?” Oromë snapped, his temper breaking and Celegorm blinked at him. “You're Noldo, you should understand—except you don't because you live in your tenement buildings with dozens of other Noldo and you can punch anyone who insults you. I can stand there and take it from anyone because I have my whole life. He was hardly the first man to insult me on the street while doing my job. He was hardly the worst.”

“You should not have to—”

“But I do!” Oromë said. “That's the reality of the world, and you are a child if you think otherwise.”

“I am not,” Celegorm started, heat flaring in his eyes.

Oromë took a step toward him and Celegorm tipped his head back, jaw stubbornly set. “You are not that blind, are you?” Oromë asked.

“I do not think it is right,” Celegorm said.

“Who does?” Oromë asked, tired and Celegorm grabbed him suddenly, yanking him down. “Do not—” Oromë started unsure what he was going to ask Celegorm not to do before a warm mouth slammed against his. Automatically his hands came up to wrap around Celegorm's waist, tugging him closer. “Do not do that again,” Oromë said, without opening his eyes when Celegorm pulled back. “It is too mmuch—too foolhardy.”

“Don't worry, I know,” Celegorm said.

Oromë didn't tell Celegorm he sincerely hoped so because when he leaned forward again, Celegorm pulled back. Not even questioning, Oromë watched him as he kept backing up.

“I need to,” Celegorm started, gesturing vaguely.

“Of course,” Oromë said, the exhaustion from earlier creeping back in.

“Don't let people walk all over you,” Celegorm said and Oromë just stared, unable to come up with anything before he was gone.

“If only it was that easy,” Oromë said to the alleyway around him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first two scenes listening to West Side Story and the last one listening to Prince of Egypt specially "Through Heaven's Eyes" and honestly idk what that means for that scene.

Celegorm did not arrive home before Mablung caught up to him. “I have to say, you are actually the craziest Noldo I know,” he said, and Celegorm tensed.

“Don't you still have bruises from the last time we fought?” he demanded. “You so sure you want to go there again?”

“Who says I am here to fight?” Mablung asked, his head cocked to one side.

“Don't play games with me,” Celegorm said. “What else would you be following me for?”

“I started out tonight by following your cop,” Mablung said, tone mild and Celegorm froze.

“What?” he asked. “My—I do not have a cop, you're off your head.”

“Yeah? What else do you call knowing where he lives and kissing him?”

“You might notice that was in the alley and not his house,” Celegorm snapped before he realized how damning both things said were.

Mablung tilted his head. “Ah, so he doesn't let you in. Does he have a wife up there and kids or something—”

Celegorm lashed out and Mablung ducked, his laugh ugly.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Celegorm asked. “No one is gonna believe you if you try and turn us in the police. No one is even going to believe you around Little Beleriand. So what the fuck do you want?”

“You really think no one would believe me?” Mablung asked.

“No,” Celegorm said, too desperate for it to be true.

“It would be too obvious, wouldn't it?” Mablung asked. “Right after you defended him in the street. No one would actually believe you would be stupid enough to do that in _broad daylight_ if you were secretly fucking him too. Too petty of me, right?”

Celegorm narrowed his eyes when Mablung stepped forward, a bare inch before he stopped again. His hands up and shaking, Celegorm tilted back. “So what do you want?”

“Oh, just for you to know,” Mablung said.

“You goddamn bastard,” Celegorm said after a beat.

“I mean, if you dig your hole any deeper,” Mablung said. “As I'm sure you will as you just proved you were that moronic, I'll have the best dirt on you.”

“I could kill you first,” Celegorm grit out and Mablung smiled.

“Has our relationship ever been like that?”

“We don't have a relationship!” Celegorm protested. “We are nothing to each other except a punching bag and sometimes—sometimes maybe nothing else but we are not—”

Mablung shrugged, unconcerned as Celegorm seemed to lapse into incoherence. “Do you think your father would believe me?”

'No,” Celegorm said, and Mablung could tell he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“What about your brother?”

“I thought you said you were not planning on doing anything,” Celegorm grit out.

“Not yet,” Mablung agreed and turned away.

“I'll kill you first,” and Mablung stopped, turned back around at the tone in Celegorm's voice. “If you dare,” Celegorm said and there was something deadly as much as panicked lurking in his voice. “I'll kill you first.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Mablung said and left.

-0-

“Ulmo,” Turgon greeted upon finding him in Gondolin. “You do get around, don't you?”

“Has Finrod been talking again?” Ulmo asked. “That's not like him.”

Turgon shrugged, sitting down across from him and Glorfindel remained standing, his blond hair too long and too obvious in its tail down his back. “He's always talked to me.”

“How lovely,” Ulmo remarked dryly. “I hope you appreciate your special status.”

Turgon's brows inched up, unused to such obvious bitterness from Ulmo. “Are you good?” he asked.

Ulmo seemed to shake himself. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I came here to talk of other things. I was sorrowed to hear of your brother.”

Spine tensing, Turgon inclined his head in acknowledgment but did not otherwise react. Ulmo's mouth twisted and he glanced at Glorfindel before returning his gaze to Turgon. “I assume you have more than a working theory on who did it?”

“Of course,” Turgon said.

“And I assume it's my dear horrible cousin,” Ulmo said, not even a question.

“I never have understood you and him,” Turgon said after a beat. “I know you don't have the same sadistic streak, but it seems odd you despise each other so much considering what you both do.”

Ulmo narrowed his eyes at Turgon. “Really,” he said, not really a question. “I hate the bastard and he loathes me for his own reasons.”

“I meant with the rest of your family,” Turgon said with a small wince which indicated he was willing to let the question drop.

Ulmo just shook his head. “At any rate,” he said. “I've been keeping my ear to the ground.”

“Any news?” Turgon asked, his brows raising.

“Some but it's mostly rumors still,” Ulmo said.

“But you'll let me know,” Turgon said, not really a question either.

Ulmo smiled, faint and not happy. “Yes. I wanted to let you know. I will share any information I find with you.”

“I assume for the price of the same?” Turgon said.

“And telling Finrod,” Ulmo said after a beat and Turgon let surprise flicker over his face before nodding.

“Without saying where it came from?” he asked and Ulmo gave him a strained smile. “Alright.”

“How is the rest of your family?” Ulmo asked as Turgon started to rise.

“Well,” Turgon said. “You would adore Idril. She seems to grow up more every day.”

Smiling again, Ulmo rose. “I'm glad,” he said. “Maybe some day she'll be as beautiful as her mother and as vicious as her father.”

“Me? Vicious?” Turgon said with a bland smile. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

-0-

Tea steamed between them as Caranthir and Azaghâl eyed each other across the table.

“So that didn't take long.”

Caranthir's eyes were hooded and unimpressed. “If you say so. When did you say Durin would return?”

“In whatever sweet time Durin wishes to return,” Azaghâl said dryly.

“So good of him to be on time,” Caranthir said.

Azaghâl rolled his eyes, and sipped at his tea. For a second Caranthir considered it before he pulled his cup toward him as well. He sniffed it in distaste before he started sipping. “Your attempt to be polite by drinking what's put in front of you falls flat when you so obviously hate it,” Azaghâl said.

“I figured the attempt might earn me something,” Caranthir said and Azaghâl snorted, shaking his head.

“Besides,” he said and drank his tea calmly. “You're mistaken if you think Durin planned to be here on your schedule. We have our own business to attend to.”

Caranthir made a face and went back to warily sipping his tea.

“You know why the British give their workers tea, don't you?”

“I honestly have no interest in your socialist speeches,” Caranthir said.

“Ah that's right, you'd rather step on the downtrodden to raise yourself up. I keep forgetting that's the Noldorian way.”

“You're not that much better,” Caranthir said. “No matter how you phrase it in different language the reality if you're as much gangsters as we are.”

“Oh, certainly,” Azaghâl said. “We're certainly gangsters. But we protect our own and that means all of our people, not just our family and business associates.”

Caranthir grunted and looked around again. “You're right, I guess you're not terribly egalitarian or you wouldn't have to wait for Durin to speak with me.”

“I'd rather have backup when dealing with a snake such as yourself, honestly,” Azaghâl said with a shrug. Caranthir pressed his lips together.

“You seem to like my brother well enough.”

“I tolerate Maedhros because he knows what respect means,” Azaghâl said. “Even if he is actually as awful as the rest of you. He hides it better.”

“And yet,” Caranthir said. “Here we are.”

“You're a bastard, but at least you're an honest one,” Azaghâl said. “Makes the whole negotiating process easier to handle for everyone. I might like him more but I don't remotely trust him. You? Just a tiny bit."

“Oh, will we actually manage to get to the negotiation part of them before I get grey hair?” Caranthir asked.

“Oh look,” Azaghâl said instead and reached out, plucking the tea pot off the table. “You're done with your tea. Let me refill your cup.”

Caranthir glared at him the whole time he poured. “Thank you,” he ground out and Azaghâl offered him a bright smile.

Before Caranthir could say anything else, the door opened and Durin walked in, dropping his hat aimlessly and shrugging out of his coat before his eyes focused on Caranthir. “Ah, our Noldo visitor. I trust Azaghâl has been a gracious host.”

“Most,” Caranthir said with a harsh edge and Azaghâl kept smiling sweetly at him.

“Excellent,” Durin said, walking over and pouring his own cup of tea. “I always trust him to put our best foot forward.”

Caranthir looked at Azaghâl who did not appear phased. For the first time he could not figure out if someone was being sarcastic or not and gave Durin another considering look.

“So, Noldo,” Durin said, lifting his own cup of tea to his face and inhaling the scent. “I know this is not what you came for, but how would you like to strike back at Morgoth?”

“What?” Caranthir asked, thrown by the still mild tone Durin was using. “Of course I would—”

“I mean right now,” Durin said and Caranthir blinked as Azaghâl pulled out a sawed off shotgun from underneath the table like it was nothing and he had been prepared for what blindsided Caranthir. “I assume you're armed already. If not I'm sure we can find you something.”

When Caranthir squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious, there was a deep rage banked in Durin's eyes, and he was not nearly so calm as he was projecting. “We assumed you hated him too,” Caranthir said after a beat. “But I was not in contact with you last time he was out.”

“Oh,” Durin said. “Do not worry your Noldo head. We hate him.”

“Then yes,” Caranthir said with an icy smile. “I'd love to strike back at him. Right now.”

Durin's smile looked genuine and Caranthir couldn't figure it out how he felt about that.

“Good,” he said softly. “That's the answer I wanted to hear. Let's go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves are the Jewish gangs from New York. Ironically in the 1930s an Italian (Which I'm situating the Noldo as) and a Jewish gangster sorta joined together and took over New York. After some prison time they also took over Cuba in the 50s. 
> 
> After I started writing the scene I went looking to see if there was an basis in Jews drinking tea and found a 1906 book that talked at length about Russian Jews drinking tea in New York. Like, 12 cups a day. So. Apparently there's at least SOME basis for this.


	16. Chapter 16

Draped over the couch, Celegorm kicked the side over and over as he stared at the ceiling.

“Will you actually stay home this week do you think, or is there somewhere else for you to be?” Curufin asked and Celegorm's throat felt too closed, and everything felt like _too much_.

“Oh, I'm sure here is fine,” he said, itching and kicked the side again.

“Stop it,” Curufin ground out, going over some papers on the kitchen table.

“You must have loved it when I was gone,” Celegorm sniped and ignored the look Curufin shot him before setting aside another typed page.

“It was remarkably silent and productive,” Curufin said.

Celegorm looked at his hands, considering his fingers instead of screaming. “Well, then I'll get out of your hair,” he said, and instead of thinking about Mablung's half smirk, all he could think about was Oromë as he held him down and tried to smoother him with kindness and soft kisses. It did not even seem to matter to him that they were in a cheap hotel in the middle of the night, he had felt—

Celegorm jerked up.

“That's not what I meant,” Curufin said, his eyes dark as he watched his brother.

“Be careful what you wish for, brother,” Celegorm said. “Don't worry, I'll be back before morning.”

Curufin hummed, and watched Celegorm walk to where his hat hung. “You will have to excuse me if I do not believe that.”

“Promise,” Celegorm said airily, biting down panic.

“You're promises are worth less than our cousins,” Curufin said and Celegorm arched a brow at him.

“Say, are you two talking again yet?” Tilting his chin, Curufin dared Celegorm to ask again.

“Thought not,” Celegorm said after a beat.

“Brother,” Curufin said, voice low enough Celegorm turned all the way around to face him instead of leaving him at his back. “Something is wrong. Either fix it or I will figure out what it is.”

“What a threat, brother,” Celegorm said and shut the door behind himself. He did not want to admit that it actually was.

-0-

Durin motioned for Caranthir to be quiet before he inched forward along the roof. Down below them it seemed silent but the streetlamps were burning brightly.

“Nice spot,” Caranthir muttered. “And utterly still.”

“Be quiet, Noldo,” Durin said, flickering a smile at him and Caranthir gave himself another minute to lay on this roof before leaving. He was on the verge of pushing himself back up and walking away when someone stepped into the space between the warehouses, several other forms spreading out around them in an obvious defensive pattern.

Instead of leaving, Caranthir pressed himself more firmly to the ceiling.

He looked over at Durin, whose face had stilled, staring intently down below them.

“That is Ungoliant,” Caranthir hissed.

Durin inclined his head, and Azaghâl shifted on his other side. “Just wait,” Durin breathed.

Caranthir started to suspect he should have asked for more details before agreeing to follow the others into the night.

As the gathering below started to seem restless Sauron walked into their patch of light.

“Tell me he didn't send his dog out to do his bidding,” Ungoliant said and Sauron cocked one perfect brow at her.

“And if he did?” he asked, head cocked to one side.

“I do not deal with people's toys,” she said and Caranthir could imagine the smile on her face even if he could not see it. “Only my own.”

Caranthir could see Sauron's face though, with it's faint, always mocking half-smile. “You should know better than to think so little of people.”

“Thinking little of you is easy,” she said, mocking. “Such a faithful, loyal creature. I suppose we all should be more impressed with the simple fact you have survived this long. And without losing your position as favorite. You must really be something to hold his attention this long.”

“It is always beneficial to know you are still as much of a fool as ever,” Sauron said after a beat and she made a growling sound that Caranthir could hear even on the roof.

She stepped forward as the shadows moved again, and Morgoth strolled into the meeting at last, Gothmog and Glaurung at either of his shoulders. “What, no Thuringwethil tonight? How disappointing. You know I like to see a female face.”

“Funny,” Sauron remarked. “Considering she works for me.”

“Best not remind your lord you have your own people,” Ungoliant said with a sing song voice because Morgoth's expression had darkened slightly at the reminder.

“That does not negate my point,” Sauron shrugged, and he had already fallen back slightly to be behind Morgoth's shoulder, but still in front of Glaurung.

“Maybe not,” Ungoliant agreed, focusing her eyes on Morgoth. “So nice of you to get out of prison. And take so long to come and see me.”

“Do not worry, you as always are a priority,” Morgoth said.

“You certainly do not know how to make a girl feel special,” she said.

Morgoth spread his hands out, palms up. “What could I do? Recently out of prison, so much to do, so much of my empire to rebuild.”

“Like it was that difficult.”

“You're just pouting,” he said. “What can I do to make it better?”

“Give me the lower east side,” she said sweetly.

Sauron snorted.

“That's,” Caranthir started to whisper and Durin held a hand up. He pointed a finger back down to the meeting in front of them.

“Oh dear,” Morgoth said after a moment. “No, I think not.”

“I think you'll want to give it to me,” she said with a smile.

“And why the hell is that?” Morgoth asked, arching his brows and cocking his head to one side.

“Because I found something you want,” she said in a sing song voice and Morgoth's entire posture froze. He was still posed casually but it was clear every part of him was paying attention. “You know the thing, of course.”

“I thought you said if you got it first I would never see it again,” he said slowly, anger seeping into his voice.

“Get me the East side and I'll reconsider.”

Morgoth's face twisted, ugly. “I should burn you out instead.”

“You can't,” she said. “You've tried. You know you have and every time you failed.”

“There's always the next time,” Morgoth said. “One of them has to be the charm.”

“You just do not want to admit you lost the lower East side when you went to prison,” she said and Caranthir's knuckles were white he was clenching his hands so hard.

“So why not take it yourself?” Morgoth demanded, and Sauron's gaze darted over to him, almost worried before he lazily turned his gaze back to Ungoliant.

She in turn shrugged. “Better to let you do it. Besides, no one wants to get between you and the Noldo.”

Morgoth stepped forward and Durin seemed to finally be content with whatever information he got and done with the posturing.

“Shall we?” he whispered, looking over at Azaghâl.

“Fucking finally,” he said, lining up a shot.

“Aren't we stupidly exposed up here?” Caranthir asked and Durin gave him a bland smile.

“You say that like you've never gotten into a fire fight from the roof before,” Durin whispered back and before Caranthir could protest it was because he was not insane, Azaghâl, the other's beside him, and Durin had all readied their guns and taken a shot.

Caranthir had never resented not being better prepared in his life when several of Ungoliant's guards went down, and Azaghâl's shot took Glaurung through his shoulder. As soon as the shooting started, Ungoliant grabbed Sauron, throwing him between her and the shots and he went down with a muted yell before rolling and coming up in a crouch.

Gothmog stepped forward, taking aim at the roof and Caranthir finally got a line on him, getting a few shots off that distressingly didn't hit him, though one grazed Sauron who brushed off the pain in his arm like it meant nothing.

“Time to go,” Durin said, as the gangsters gathered below rallied and started organizing themselves to shoot back.

“What?” Caranthir asked as the whole roof decamped quickly.

“Next time, for fuck's sake, someone aim for Morgoth between the _eyes_ , not this bullshit,” Durin was saying, as he hopped down the fire escape easily and Caranthir stumbled down behind them. The cars were already running, on the opposite side of the building.

“You have done this before,” Caranthir said, not a question.

“Well, not specifically with those two,” Durin said.

“Remind me to always scan the roofs,” Caranthir said and Durin shot him a grin as they climbed into the same car.

“That would be wise,” he said, voice serious.

-0-

Celegorm wanted to get into a fight, he knew that much. He wanted to hurt someone just to have them make him bleed in turn.

Anything to distract him from the roiling mess inside of himself, as he tired to fit together the pieces that the last few days had created. The way Oromë touched him, fast and brutal and overwhelming just like he had wanted since the start, followed by soft enough to break him.

 _Darling_ , Oromë had called him.

Oromë who could still stare at him like he meant nothing, who reasoned through Celegorm losing his mind on the street and scolded him. Now Mablung knew and Celegorm—

Celegorm still did not actually know what he was doing.

He wanted to get Oromë out of his system that had been the whole point of the night in the hotel. Since the night he saw him, standing there in the middle of the police precinct and watching Celegorm with dark eyes.

It hadn't worked because now it felt like Oromë was there more.

Finding himself in front of the precinct, Celegorm turned and stalked away, because it had been over a week since they had last arranged a meeting. His nose for finding Oromë seemed to have deserted him.

He stalked the blocks around the station, certain he had missed whichever way Oromë went home that night before he turned his head and saw Tulkas standing in front of a car, speaking quietly to Oromë. Tulkas was clearly preparing to get into the car, and Oromë watched him seriously.

Celegorm couldn't stop himself from staring.

Finally Tulkas got into the car and left, Oromë standing with his arms crossed before heading down another side street. Celegorm instantly looped off after him, catching up with a few quick strides.

Oromë startled before he turned, eyes narrowed. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Celegorm repeated.

“I admit I'm surprised,” Oromë said and was still walking.

“Are you?” Celegorm asked.

“I figured after the other night I might not see you for a while,” and his jaw was clenched, as he looked forward. Celegorm had to bit his lip when he realized what that meant.

“The hotel or the arrest?”

“The hotel,” Oromë said quietly. “You got what you wanted, didn't you?”

“Why do you think that's all I wanted?” Celegorm asked, and he could feel that same panic rising in him that had driven him out here to begin with.

Oromë stopped and turned. They were still in shadows, like usual, and Celegorm wasn't sure if he wanted to fight or to run. But he could not stand the way Oromë looked at him with heavy eyes. “Whatever you are thinking, don't,” Oromë whispered.

Fight, Celegorm realized. He wanted to fight. To take some of this jitteriness and throw it out at someone else just to see how they would react. “You're the one that arrested me.”

Oromë frowned. “We talked about that—”

When Celegorm punched him, he let his head be jerked to the side by the force of the hit, blinking at the wall and Celegorm dropped into a defensive posture. He hadn't quite expected the punch either.

“Do not,” Oromë said softly, and it was dangerous.

“What? You don't want to fight?” Celegorm asked. “After everything? Come on, I just punched you and you're just going to stand there and take it.”

“I don't need this,” Oromë said and started walking away.

“Hey!” Celegorm ran to catch up and pulled hard on his arm. “Do not walk away from me.”

“I have no intention of fighting you either,” Oromë said, eyes flashing.

“No one walks away from a fight with me—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Oromë demanded. “I do not have the time or any inclination for this.”

“So you will fuck me but not fight me?”

“Those things are usually mutually exclusive,” Oromë said and yanked his arm away. There was something as sad as angry in his eyes and Celegorm felt like everything else had faded away.

“Not with me,” he said.

“I am not interested,” Oromë said and Celegorm ran at him, throwing himself against Oromë's side. Stumbling against the wall, his solid bulk almost knocking the air out of Celegorm, he did not react for a second.

When Celegorm advanced again Oromë shoved him back, anger taking over any sadness left in him. They scuffled for a few moments, Oromë still holding back until Celegorm in a moment he barely understood except for it's desperation, pulled a knife out that Curufin had given him years ago.

Oromë broke his wrist.

Gasping at the sudden pain, Celegorm staggered and Oromë caught him, shock more evident on his face than Celegorm felt. “Fuck, fuck, what is wrong with you?” Oromë asked, frantically grabbing him and trying to keep him upright as Celegorm tilted first one way and then the other.

“Oh,” Celegorm managed and laughed through the pain and the dizziness. It felt like all the pieces of Oromë and Mablung and the last months fit together in his head through the haze of pain. Sleepless nights where he couldn't figure out what he was doing made sudden, stark sense. “Fuck, I love you.”

He thought he might have passed out then.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean it only took them a /100 pages/ to even reach this point. 
> 
> LiveOak does this count???

“Is it really worth it?” Sauron asked when Morgoth finally acknowledged him standing there.

“Is what worth it?” he asked, idle but with a current of anger under his voice.

Sauron carefully did not huff out a breath or stamp his foot or any number of things he almost felt tempted to do. “Ungoliant. She is going to betray you again.”

“Do you not want that territory back?” Morgoth asked, snide.

“To hand it back to her?” Sauron asked. “Not particularly. We fought for that land once and won it and then we lost it,” Sauron carefully did not say while Morgoth was in prison. “And now we are to fight for it again to hand it away?”

Morgoth gave him a narrow eyed look. “I thought you would want to take down the Noldorian who took it.”

“I do,” Sauron said, not even hesitating.

“Than take the territory and we shall see what comes of it afterwards, won't we?” Morgoth said.

Sauron dropped his eyes. “As you say,” he said. “ Glaurung's arm is ruined.”

“Will he be able to shoot again?” Morgoth asked.

There was a vindictive pleasure in Sauron when he shook his head. “Unlikely.”

Morgoth hummed, already turning his attention away. “He is not the type to be stupid enough to turn us over to anyone. Buy his silence with money but there's no point in killing him yet.”

“Is there a point in protecting him?” Sauron asked, sounding disappointed.

“No,” Morgoth said. “But we want to convince our men it's still worth working for me.”

Sauron bit down his question that fear was not already enough to do that and only nodded instead. “I will see to it,” he said and went for the door.

“Start making plans about that Noldo,” Morgoth said. “He likes to think he's entrenched instead of weak.”

“I'll prove him wrong,” Sauron said and closed the door behind himself. Once in the hallway he let go a hiss of pain, double checking the graze on his shoulder and seeing that the bandages had bled through. Shaking his arm he pulled his shirt closed around his throat again and walked away like he had never noticed the pain.

-0-

Celegorm woke up slowly, which was unusual in itself. He squinted up at the white ceiling and smelled clean linen and tried to think why that would be the case.

Which wasn't to say anywhere he lived was dirty or smelly, but there was a certain aroma to Little Beleriand that just wasn't anywhere here. He shifted, rolling over and realized his wrist was carefully splint and wrapped and that it hurt to twist his body on top of it.

Swearing in Noldorian he finally saw Oromë, who had been standing over a tiny stove and cooking something.

“Of course you have to be so stupid,” Oromë said, rolling him back over to his other side and Celegorm tried not to groan at being so easily handled. Oromë could pick him up and possibly break him in half and not sweat.

“Wasn't my fault,” he said. “Didn't remember—”

There were circles under Oromë's eyes when he met Celegorm's. “I'm sorry,” he said and Celegorm stared.

“Sorry?” he repeated.

Oromë frowned. “I broke your wrist,” he said.

Celegorm considered the splint and the bright white bandages holding it in place by holding it up in front of his face. “You fixed it,” he said, like that accounted for breaking it in the first place.

Letting out a giant sigh, Oromë hung his head for a moment. “You impossible creature,” he said under his breath before going back to the tiny stove and pulling a pot off. Celegorm watched him, head sinking back down on the pillow and realized all at once this was Oromë's apartment.

For a second he couldn't breath, and he wanted to roll off the bed and slink away before Oromë noticed but Oromë had already turned around with a bowl in his hands. “Here,” he said, walking over. “You should eat this.”

When Celegorm simply stared at him, eyes too wide, Oromë sighed again and set the bowl on the rickety bedside table before hauling Celegorm up into a sitting position, stuffing the few pillows on the bed behind his back. “There, will that help?”

“Sure,” Celegorm managed. Oromë put the bowl in his hand and then frowned. Celegorm's mouth twitched and he almost wanted to tease Oromë about spoon feeding him. Instead, he held out the hand with the splint. “I've done this before you know. I can figure out the spoon with it.”

“Alright,” Oromë said and handed him the spoon carefully before returning to the kitchen, cleaning up.

For a long time, Celegorm just stared at the gently steaming bowl in his hand, the broth and chunks of chicken and carrots and pasta and he almost dropped it because everything suddenly ached. “Oromë,” he said, his hand shaking. “What are you doing?”

“I broke your wrist,” Oromë said without turning around and he sounded miserable.

“I know,” Celegorm said and suddenly the fact Oromë was so far away was unbearable. He got the bowl on the bedside table again and was scrambling out of the bed when Oromë turned around.

“Celegorm,” he started, moving forward and catching Celegorm before he could fall on his face. Celegorm had noticed the apartment was tiny, Oromë's large shoulders making the low ceiling look even lower, but he hadn't realized fully that it was so small.

“I just,” he started, and shook his head.

“You should get back into bed,” Oromë said.

“I should go,” Celegorm said. “Is what I should do. I have to go this isn't—”

Oromë's face blanked suddenly and it drew Celegorm up short. “You can leave if you want to,” Oromë said, and his voice was flat, almost dead. “I won't stop you.”

The pain in his wrist felt far away as he stared at Oromë trying so hard not to react. “This is your apartment,” he said, like that explained why he had to go.

“Yes,” Oromë agreed.

“I should go,” Celegorm said faintly, lost, and Oromë helped him back into the bed.

“You don't have to eat if you don't want to,” Oromë said, looking at the bowl.

“You made it,” Celegorm said. _For me_ , went unsaid but it made his chest flutter. “Just don't,” and he couldn't ask it so he shut his mouth.

“Don't what?” Oromë frowned and then something dawned in his expression. “Oh. Do you want me to stay here?”

Celegorm eyed how far away the kitchen actually was and felt pathetic. “Yes,” he said, quiet, as if that would make his weakness better. Instead of laughing or shaking his head, Oromë sat on the edge of the bed, holding the bowl back up.

“Here,” he said. “I can hold it and you can use your good hand with the spoon that way.”

“I'm not,” Celegorm started and shook his head at himself. “Thank you,” he said instead of anything else. He ate quickly in silence, trying not to stare at Oromë. When he was finished, Oromë set the bowl back on the side table and they both hesitated.

“I should go,” Celegorm said.

“You could,” Oromë said, but he said it so carefully, like he had flayed himself open and now Celegorm was driving the knife in and running.

“I could,” Celegorm started, and his throat went dry so he had to try it again. “I could stay?”

Oromë's eyes darkened and he looked down. “You could,” he said, and Celegorm had never heard him more vulnerable. Biting his lip, Celegorm laid back down, and he closed his eyes, waiting. For a moment he thought he had made the wrong choice, or done something stupid before Oromë lay down behind him, and wrapped his arms around Celegorm's waist.

Sucking in a breath and carefully releasing it, Celegorm shifted back, until he was pressed against Oromë's chest, and he felt like he could finally breath easily.

After he had synchronized his breathing to Oromë's, he looked back at his wrist. “Did you do this? I assume I didn't end up unconscious at a hospital.”

“No, you did not, because yes, I did.”

“It's a good job,” Celegorm said, and wished he could sear this memory from his brain already.

Oromë huffed out a breath behind him. “Yes,” he said. “You learn certain things when you grow up with Morgoth.”

Celegorm felt like the air had been sucker punched out of his lungs. “As in, in the same house?”

Oromë hummed. “Yes,” he said, and Celegorm realized all at once his hands were tight against his stomach. “I think I said their father took us in. Or rather, our mother, his half sister. His father had owned my grandmother and, well,” he sighed. “Our father died in an accident when we were both very small children. A black woman and her two kids—it's a well worn story.”

Celegorm pressed his check harder into the pillow and rested one of his hands against Oromë's.

“So he took his half-sister in. Raised Nessa and I along with his children. But were were the bastard, mixed race off spring of slaves. There's only so much you could do to make us acceptable.”

“But you said Morgoth taught you how to splint a wrist,” Celegorm said, and the implication there was enough. He wasn't sure why he was pressing the question.

“Yes,” Oromë said. “He practiced his petty cruelties on us. Manwë would lecture us on not provoking him. That boy was always blind to his brother, but it hardly matters anymore. He always will be blind.”

Celegorm caught an apology on the tip of his tongue and swallowed it back down.

Oromë sighed. “I don't really want to talk about it,” he said. “But growing up with Morgoth certainly taught me how to stay on my toes and do basic splints and other home remedies.”

“I can't imagine,” Celegorm said. He had grown up with Curufin, and the twin's chaos, and Caranthir's cold calculations that gave way to yelling rage, and Maedhros' perfect facade and his father's temper but none of them had actively tried to hurt each other just to hurt them.

“It was not pleasant,” Oromë said and they fell into silence again, Celegorm feeling the heat of Oromë leaking into his skin.

This apartment was clean. It was clean and tiny and white and it felt like the strangest declaration of home Celegorm could think of. He wanted to set up camp in the middle of it and never leave. He wanted to burrow into the heart of Oromë and insist that's where he belonged.

He took a shuddering breath, not quite a sob and not quite normal either.

Oromë's hand started stroking his stomach, soothing and annoying in turns. “You didn't have to do this,” Celegorm said. “I drew a knife on you.”

He did remember that much. He thought he had said something too and was hoping that was some strange fever dream.

“I broke your wrist,” Oromë said and fell silent. Celegorm thought for a desperately hopeful second that was going to be all of it. “And then you said you loved me.”

Celegorm cursed, but it came out high and reedy. He started to jerk forward again but Oromë's arms were wrapped too tightly around him. “You said you loved me,” Oromë repeated, right into his ear, and the wash of hot breath as much as the words caused Celegorm to shake.

“You can just forget about that,” he tried for joking and landed on stupidly desperate.

“No,” Oromë said, holding him even tighter and Celegorm wanted to struggle, wanted to get away, but instead he pressed closer to Oromë. “You said that you _loved_ me.”

“For fuck's sake,” Celegorm said, and his voice was still too high. “You keep repeating it like you can't believe it.”

“You have made it hard to believe it,” Oromë said, voice low and heavy.

“I don't want to love you,” Celegorm said and felt like he had stabbed Oromë.

“I understand,” Oromë said soft and hurt. “I do. There's not much worth—”

“No, damn you, no,” Celegorm said and squirmed. Oromë finally relented and loosened his arms so Celegorm could turn to face him, propping his splint wrist on the pillow and dragging Oromë's face closer to his own with his other hand. “I don't want to. But I do. I can't stop it because I do and—” He gave up on words, pulling Oromë closer and kissing him.

Unlike any kiss that came before it was gentle, and he let Oromë cradle his face and lazily suck on his tongue and breathe with him. He sank into clean linen and let Oromë kiss him like it was obvious he had always wanted to.

The sun streamed through the windows, lighting up the space around them and Celegorm knew this would never last.

But his panic had quieted and the pain was irrelevant and Oromë kissed him like he was precious because they both knew he could break him.

 


	18. Chapter 18

“You know there are two of our brothers who live here too, who would probably love to see and talk to you and Celegorm, right?” Caranthir said when he opened the door to Curufin.

“Where is Celegorm?” Curufin demanded.

“Look, I know you waited for our other two brothers to leave, what gives with that?” Caranthir asked, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe, using his foot to keep the door propped open and forcing Curufin to remain in the hallway.

“I asked you a question,” Curufin ground out.

“Technically, I asked you one first,” Caranthir said.

“I know you are the brother that the others... confide in,” Curufin said.

“It must be my sparkling personality,” Caranthir said dryly.

“More like your lax morals,” Curufin snapped.

Caranthir bit his lip and tried not to smile. “You mean the fact I don't judge or harangue them, unlike you and father? Honestly I'm not sure why Maglor isn't a more popular confidant.”

“Too close to Maedhros.”

“Who doesn't judge so much as look intensely disappointed and like he has a dozen better things to do?” Caranthir mused.

Curufin's hands had curled into angry fists. “Yes, well. Now will you tell me where Celegorm is?”

Caranthir considered him. “How long has he been missing?” he asked.

“Does that matter?” Curufin asked.

“Sure,” Caranthir shrugged. “He's probably just working out his issues.”

Curufin stilled, watching his older brother. “And do you know what those issues are?”

Caranthir snorted, already knowing the answer before he asked the question. “If he has not already told you, I won't.”

“Why do you know them to begin with?” Curufin demanded, taking a step closer and Caranthir did not even twitch back.

“Why me and not you?” Caranthir asked.

Scowling, Curufin just stared at him as if his rage would force Caranthir to answer his question.

“Have a good night, Curufin,” Caranthir said, and started to close the door.

“How dare you?” Curufin demanded, pushing at the door before it could fully close.

“Maybe you should ask yourself why he's not trusting you,” Caranthir snapped, done with the conversation.

“He trusts me,” Curufin protested.

“Does he?” Caranthir asked. “Because from where I'm standing I'm not sure he does.”

Curufin slammed his hand against the door and Caranthir scowled at him. “How dare you,” Curufin said, voice completely flat.

“You're the one coming to me to figure out where our brother is,” Caranthir said and slammed the door, leaving Curufin fuming on the other side.

-0-

“I'm busy,” Maedhros said without looking up when someone sat across from him.

“Yeah, you usually are,” and Maedhros' head snapped up, hands stilling.

“Fingon?” he asked, faintly. “Shit—I'm sorry—no, it's—”

“It's okay,” Fingon said, and his smile was strained and nothing like the casual way he had grinned at Maedhros in the past. “You weren't expecting me.”

“No,” Maedhros agreed. “I wasn't expecting you at all.”

“And yet,” Fingon spread his hands. “Here I am.”

Maedhros swallowed back his first question, if Fingon was alright. “I'm glad,” he said instead of asking anything. “I'm glad you came. I'm sorry I pestered you before.”

“It was sweet, in an annoying way,” Fingon shrugged.

“You needed space and time,” Maedhros said, the words he had repeated to himself constantly while he waited for Fingon to get both.

Fingon's face flickered, like he was on the edge of smiling and yet could not figure out how to tip over it. “It's sweet. You're surprisingly sweet.”

“Is there going to be a point where it stops being surprising?” Maedhros asked.

“I don't know,” Fingon said. “Presumably acquaintance breeds antipathy at some point.”

“Actual negativity?” Maedhros asked and Fingon's face flickered again.

“Maybe not quite that far,” he said. “Comfort, perhaps. The extraordinary becomes mundane.”

Maedhros bit his tongue instead of saying he never expected Fingon to feel mundane to him. Everything was too raw, too much with Fingon sitting there. They were in public, people passing Maedhros' table and out on the street and this was the last place Maedhros actually wanted this meeting to happen.

He wanted to reach out and hold Fingon too much. But this was the ground Fingon offered him, so it was all he could take.

“Perhaps,” he agreed.

“Even grief feels mundane after a while,” Fingon said, and looked away. “I—I've spent my life removed from this. I guess I finally understand why father wanted it that way. It seemed like such an adventure.”

“It's not,” Maedhros said, throat thick and Fingon looked back at him. “It's never been an adventure. It's toil and blood and fear and that never goes away.”

Fingon closed his eyes. “I'm starting to understand that.”

“Have you considered just leaving?” Maedhros asked.

“My family is here,” Fingon snapped, eyes opening and glaring at Maedhros.

“I mean,” Maedhros said. “To go back where you went to school. You don't have to remain trapped in this life if you don't want it.”

“And you do?” Fingon asked. “You want to?”

“I've been in it long enough,” Maedhros said. “I'm certain I couldn't get out.”

For a moment they sat in silence and Maedhros felt his heart rate kick up as he realized what he said, what he had admitted. Words he would never utter to one of his brothers or father and he had said it to this boy he kissed and shouldn't quite trust yet.

This boy who was beautiful and hurting and if he said they should run away, Maedhros realized he might just in a second. He instantly felt awful and guilty and had to look away from Fingon.

“It might just be too late for any of us,” Fingon said. Maedhros forced himself to look back. “I think,” Fingon's smile was bitter and self-deprecating. “Once you're in it might just be over.”

Maedhros looked down. “Perhaps,” he whispered.

“I'm sorry,” Fingon said abruptly, rising. “I'm sorry, this. Is still too much. I just—”

“I'm glad you came,” Maedhros said. “I'm glad to see you again. If it's just for this short time, I understand. Please, come back when you're ready.”

“I'll let you know,” Fingon said and when he tipped his hat back on, Maedhros realized it was a flat and plain grey.

He managed not to say anything about it as Fingon left.

-0-

“He's back,” Bëor said and Finrod hummed. He sat, his hands behind his head on the back of the chair with his eyes closed, listening to the murmur of his club around him.

“There's a lot of 'he's in my life lately,” he said, eyes still closed.

“Not this one lately,” Bëor said, dry and angry and Finrod finally opened his eyes.

Curufin stood by the door, and it was clear from every line of his body he was furious. “Ah,” Finrod murmured. “I don't want to deal with this tonight.”

“I can just kick him out,” Bëor said and sounded pleased at the idea.

Finrod seriously considered it before he rose instead, sweeping across the floor toward Curufin. “And what do I owe this to?” he asked, and there were circles under his eyes, and his hands had trouble stilling. “Because I am tired, Curufin, and not in the mood.”

“The mood for what?” Curufin asked, tensing and obviously not having expected this reaction.

“Your games,” Finrod said. “Whatever they are tonight.”

Curufin's jaw worked. “What if I just wanted a drink?”

“Then have it and be gone,” Finrod said and Curufin stared.

“What?” he asked.

“As I said, I am not in the mood,” Finrod said, the first time he had flatly rejected Curufin coming around.

“Is this because of what happened?” Curufin said. “When we fought—”

“Partly,” Finrod said and offered him nothing else.

Curufin blinked. “Then what else is it?” he ground out, slow and angry.

Finrod shrugged. “I do not have to itemize myself to you, Curufin,” he said. “You acted like a petulant child and only proved yourself one when you licked your wounds for so long. Have your drink. But then leave,” and he turned away. He had only taken a few steps before Curufin grabbed his arm and yanked him around.

Bëor took a step forward, and Finrod held his free hand up, stopping him.

“I'm the petulant one, am I?” Curufin asked.

“I told you,” Finrod said. “I have never asked anything of you. I have taken what you gave me, when you wanted to give it. But allow me the same courtesy.”

“And the next time I come around?” Curufin asked.

“That will be the next time,” Finrod said. “And perhaps not like this one.”

Curufin snorted, dropping Finrod's arm. “How like the ocean you pretend to be.”

Suddenly, inexplicably, Finrod tensed.

“Like the tide that comes in and out, you wish to be unknowable, and predictable only on the surface,” Curufin continued, like he hadn't noticed. “As if you heart is a riptide, or full of currents, when really all you want is to be seen that way.”

“You know what?” Finrod said softly. “Do not have a drink. Just leave.”

Curufin sneered at him and turned around, leaving without another word.

Standing in the middle of his glittering palace, Finrod touched the bottom jewel of his necklace—his choke chain—and watched him go.

-0-

Sitting on the edge of the stairs, Durin turned the runestone over and over in his hand, watching the tide come in and out. The runes etched into the stone was a prayer for strength, as sturdy as the stone they had once come from.

Azaghâl came out from the apartment building behind him, handing him a cup of tea. “And does the ocean have any answers tonight?” he asked wryly, lighting a cigarette.

“Does it ever?” Durin asked, sliding the runestone back into his pocket and wrapping both hands around the warm tea cup.

“No, which is why I don't understand why you sit out here, night after night, and stare at it like it might.”

“I find it soothing,” Durin said.

Azaghâl snorted. “It's the ocean. I don't see how it would be soothing. We came across it once and that was honestly enough for me.”

“We were children,” Durin said, amused.

“Exactly and that was enough ocean to last me a life time. Damn you for deciding to settle here, by the way.”

“We'd have a much harder time keeping Khazad-dûm without it,” Durin pointed out.

“Are you honestly trying to make me feel better about the ocean?” Azaghâl asked. “You're getting soft in your old age, Durin.”

“I'm thirty-four,” Durin replied dryly.

“That's fucking old,” Azaghâl insisted.

“You're twenty-eight,” Durin added.

“I'm nearing healthy middle age,” Azaghâl said, and took another drag of smoke. Durin shook his head, chuckling and for a moment they fell silent, old companionship obvious between them.

“What did you come out here for?” Durin asked.

“I'm worried,” Azaghâl said, tired of beating around the bush. “Eol is pressing us on one side, Morgoth is furious at everyone and while he hasn't seemed to remember how much he really, especially hates us, Thingol has been making noise about what we owe him.”

“Which is nothing,” Durin said.

“Wouldn't know it to hear him talk,” Azaghâl said. “Oh, and Mîm is stealing from us again.”

Durin turned his head to stare at Azaghâl. “And is that different from how it has ever been?”

“Look,” Azaghâl said after he considered the question seriously. “Eol I almost understand. I understand why you took him under your wing and why. Not that the bastard didn't betray us exactly like I said he would—”

“His betrayal is still a matter of debate,” Durin said mildly.

“But the Noldo?” Azaghâl said. “He _hates_ us. He's made it clear plenty of times. He thinks we're stupid and greedy and _useful._ He'd stab you in a heart beat, Durin.”

“You've always been judgmental,” Durin said, not quite brushing him off.

“And I've dealt with him before,” Azaghâl said. “As I said to him: His brother pretends to like us, even though I'm sure he shares some of his father's and brother's beliefs. He might deal with us but Fëanor sent his middle son instead. And you accepted him, showed him some of our tricks. What were you thinking?”

“As you said, Morgoth hates us,” Durin said. “Racist bastard that he is. He hates them too.”

“The enemy of my enemy is not my friend,” Azaghâl said. “Haven't we learned that yet? Stop putting your trust in people. Trust in us, not in them. That's how we've survived this long.”

Durin set the tea cup aside and looked at Azaghâl. “We might have survived, but we have never thrived this way.”

“I would rather die this way than sell our selves out to the Noldo,” Azaghâl said, rising abruptly.

“But we just might,” Durin said softly, as Azaghâl stomped down the stairs. He turned around at Durin's soft words. “That's what I would do anything to avoid.”

“You're going to regret it,” Azaghâl said.

“Perhaps,” Durin said faintly.

Azaghâl heaved out a heavy breath before he took the last few stairs. Again he turned to look up at Durin. “You carry a heavy load. The Khazâd count on you. I do not envy you that. But I will kick and scream when I think you're making a mistake.”

“I would never expect other from you,” Durin said.

“Come down to Khazad-dûm when you're ready,” Azaghâl said and turned, disappearing into the night toward the stairs that wove their way past the apartment buildings clinging to the edge of the ocean and into the stone that was the bedrock of the edges of the city.

Durin brought the runestone back out, that his father had given him when he explained his name when Durin was nine years old.

“What a horrible name,” he whispered to the stone, something he had said countless times.

After a while he pocketed the runestone again and rose before following Azaghâl's path.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a few different ideas with the dwarves. Originally I was going to make them flat out Jewish for obvious reasons. But since I've set up the Noldo and Sindarians already as analogs to Italian immigrants but not actually Catholic Italians I'm starting to explore the idea of Dwarves being an analog to Jews but with their own religion.
> 
> And they are still fairly religious while the Noldo are basically lapsed catholics all around. No one in Feanor's family is actually religious in a serious way. 
> 
> Adapting a religion that's not a religion based on "gods" that are currently lawyers and cops is gonna be interesting.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha..ha... ha...

Celegorm woke up blearily, still in Oromë's bed, his wrist aching and not caring. For a while he lay there, feeling Oromë lazily trace circles around his stomach, and he felt the jittery need not to be there under his skin. But the feeling was distant and vague, compared to the panic that had encompassed his mind just the day before.

“You should go,” Oromë said, a low rumble next to his ear and Celegorm shivered. “This is another time you've disappeared from your family.”

“They can wait,” Celegorm said.

“Brash,” Oromë said, and if he meant to be chiding it did not work. “Brash boy.”

Celegorm bit his lip and then pressed himself back. “Yeah, baby, do you think so?”

Oromë shuddered, hands tightening and pulling Celegorm just that tiny space closer. “Yes.”

“Come on,” Celegorm said, wiggling and Oromë grasped, the air brushing over his ear. “If you're going to kick me out—”

“I'm not kicking you out but I have work and your family—” Oromë said and trailed off, burying his face in Celegorm's pale hair instead, as he slowly started to roll his hips, turning Celegorm's aimless movements into an actual rhythm.

Celegorm felt a moan edging out and bit his fingers to stop it. Oromë noticed, nuzzling against Celegorm's neck. “I have neighbors,” he said. “These walls aren't the thickest.”

“I figured,” Celegorm managed around his fingers, and Oromë's hands were wide and warm on his hips. “I figured that out,” and his voice trailed away as he buried his face in the pillow.

“This wasn't a problem for you before,” Oromë remarked, almost idle and Celegorm rolled himself over and Oromë let him, so that Celegorm straddled his waist. He leaned down, one of his hands resting on Oromë's chest to keep himself balanced.

He nuzzled up against Oromë's ear and those hands were braced on his hips again. “I love you,” he whispered and felt Oromë tense beneath him. “I love you,” he repeated again and it was like using a weapon against Oromë, a curse of his esteem and it made him, so much larger and stronger than Celegorm, quake.

After that Celegorm lost track of things are Oromë stripped him out of his pants and they fumbled for a while with Oromë's sleep clothes, and Oromë had to crawl out of the bed as Celegorm cursed and swore at him to return with olive oil and there were a few moments where they tried to figure that out but every blundering moment was worth it when Oromë slid his finger inside Celegorm.

He had rolled himself back on top again, not caring that he only had one effective hand to brace himself with, but any momentary pain when he forgot was worth it to see Oromë spread out beneath him, sturdy and broad shouldered and with dark eyes, panting as he opened Celegorm up inch by inch.

“We just did this,” Celegorm groaned. “You don't have to—it's _fine—_ ”

“Darling,” Oromë said and Celegorm snapped his mouth shut. Neither of them actually needed Oromë to say _I am not going to hurt you again_ to hear it. “Though, I suppose since you have been—”

“That was a lie,” Celegorm blurted, skin too tight and desperately grinding his hips down. “I haven't—since—That was a lie. I lied,” and he swore again, in Noldorian. “I lied, I lied, you ruined me—”

“Good,” Oromë rumbled, and Celegorm bit his hand hard again.

“Please just,” and Celegorm reached back blindly with his good hand, grabbing Oromë's cock and grinning at the way he jumped and groaned. His hands came up, finding their place on Celegorm's hips again and helping guide him down as Celegorm started cursing in Noldorian again.

Which was when Celegorm realized what a bad idea this had been.

He tried to roll his hips sharply down, and Oromë's hands held him steady. “No, don't,” Celegorm groaned, his teeth digging into his lip to keep his pleas quiet.

“No,” Oromë said, and Celegorm hit him on the chest with his good hand, his broken wrist hanging at his side as Oromë slowly lifted him up and down, grinding his hips up as Celegorm swore and cursed at him, slipping from easy Noldorian into clipped Sindarian curses and back into garbled English phrases. Through it all, Oromë slowly thrust up into him, driving him higher and tighter than he wanted to go.

Oromë had forced him to be slow before. But he wanted fast and desperate because while it was pleasurable it was never _too much_ , and this was far too much. Every curse became more desperate, the heat in his body too much, the sight of Oromë dark and beautiful beneath him and the feel of those hands that were controlling everything was _too much_.

“I love you,” he gasped, just to feel Oromë shake again.

“I shouldn't believe you,” Oromë murmured, and his hair, usually forced flat and slick, lay wild around his face, sweat on his brow.

Celegorm jerked, shaking his head. “I do,” he said, needing Oromë to know that. “I love—” And finally Oromë thrust up in to him and he curled his spine, trying not to cry out.

“Darling,” Oromë said, and Celegorm wondered if it was supposed to be a curse as much as Celegorm saying _I love you_ was.

Celegorm's fingers scrambled against his chest as he leaned down, and the angle was wrong, it was awful, but he pressed their mouths together, twitching and crying out as Oromë drove in to him again, picking up the pace and keeping it that way.

They were basically just sharing air instead of actually a kiss, their mouths hovering together.

“Come on, darling,” Oromë whispered, as one of his hands slipped back, his fingers touching the space where his cock disappeared in to Celegorm and Celegorm hid his scream against Oromë's chest as he jerked and shuddered.

Oromë's hips kept moving and he was reduced to panting groans, clinging to Oromë's shoulders as he was ridden through the aftershocks, pleasure fizzling through him. “I love you,” he said again, floating high on that emotion and Oromë laid out beneath him.

Throwing his head back, Oromë came silently, hands leaving bruises on Celegorm's hips and Celegorm grinned, face still pressed against his chest.

For a moment they lay in a sprawled mess until Oromë rolled them over, tucking Celegorm under his chin and their bodies still tangled hopelessly, messily, together. “You should go,” he said, hands now resting on Celegorm's spine and Celegorm mumbled something that wasn't words and pressed closer. “I don't want to let you go.”

“Could stay a little longer,” Celegorm said, and grinned again, certain Oromë could feel it against his skin. “Say I—”

Oromë kissed him before he could repeat the words, one hand coming up to cup his chin and cheek, so warm it made Celegorm shudder through the happy aftershocks.

-0-

“Where are you?” Beleg asked, waving the gun he had disassembled and was cleaning in front of Mablung's face.

“Here,” Mablung said. “Where else would I be?” He batted the gun away, scowling at his sometimes partner who he had barely seen in the last few months. “How's your tyke?”

“He's not mine,” Beleg said, running the polishing cloth along his gun again.

“Training him, aren't you?” Mablung shrugged.

“That doesn't mean I posses him,” Beleg said softly. “It doesn't mean he belongs to me.”

“What, does he have his eyes on someone else?” Mablung said glibly and Beleg stared at him, mouth twisted unhappily. Mablung kept grinning back because it was better than screaming. He focused on Beleg's unfashionably long hair instead of his scowling face.

“It's not about that,” Beleg said. “Even if we,” he coughed. “ _Were_ , it still wouldn't meant he belonged to me. He belongs to himself and I belong to myself.”

“You sure about that?” Mablung asked. “Pretty sure we belong to Thingol.”

“Mablung,” Beleg sighed and Mablung sprung to his feet, unable to stand it any more. To sit there and not know who he was more jealous of. Beleg and his pet boy with the dark hair and darker eyes, who was fast and brutal and still younger than Fëanor's littlest brats. Or Celegorm who would not touch him anymore, who looked at the police officer like there was a sun tucked inside him, and it was the only place that could warm him. Or the cop himself, with his dark skin and steady gaze and damnit, Mablung could _see_ what Celegorm wanted, and the way the cop held himself so carefully around him and it made something dark and bitter spark in Mablung.

“We should go,” he said, clipped and Beleg considered him.

“My gun's not back together.”

“Than we should stop gossiping and go,” Mablung said. “Moria owes us and Thingol wants to remind them.”

“We might as well remind a brick wall,” Beleg said but he started fitting all the cleaned pieces back together, as if he was unaware of the frantic beating of Mablung's heart, the jealousy of everyone around him rolling around in his hollow chest.

“Sure, but it's not as fun.”

“Nothing to do with them is fun,” Beleg muttered.

“They're stubborn, hardy bastards,” Mablung said. “I'd almost respect them.”

“You should always respect your enemies,” Beleg said seriously, meeting his eyes. “It will keep you alive longer.”

Mablung did not roll his eyes only through force of effort. “I don't need your advice, _gramps_.”

“We're the same age,” Beleg said, shrugging in to his coat as they walked to the door.

“Than act like it, not some fount of wisdom or whatever it is you're doing,” Mablung said, adjusting his hat in the window reflection before they were ready to step outside in the afternoon light.

“Trying to keep you alive?”

“Yeah, that's for old timers,” Mablung said jauntily and he saw in the same window reflection Beleg shake his head at him.

-0-

Celegorm pushed the door open, aware that the bottle of cider in his hands would mean nothing but any peace offering was better than none. “Brother?” he called softly and barely ducked the thrown glass that shattered on the wall beside him—Curufin had not actually been aiming at him.

“So you finally came home,” Curufin growled.

Carefully shutting the door behind him, Celegorm set the bottle of sparkling cider down and inclined his head. “Obviously.”

“What happened to you?” Curufin asked, standing in the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed and his gun in easy reach.

Celegorm held up his wrist. “Ran in to some trouble.”

“You could have sent a message,” Curufin said. “Anything.”

“Do you not believe I can handle myself?” Celegorm asked. “Can I not make a move of my own without reporting it to my little brother?”

Curufin scowled at him. “It is a dangerous time, brother.”

“Admitting you're concerned? How unlike you,” Celegorm drawled and Curufin stormed across the room, up in to Celegorm's space and Celegorm tipped his head down to meet his shorter brother's eyes, smirking.

“You have been missing too long, too often,” Curufin said. “What are you hiding?”

“You're acting like a jealous wife,” Celegorm said lightly, and expected it when Curufin grabbed the splint on his broken wrist and twisted. He let out his breath through his teeth and kept smirking.

“Tell me where you were.”

“I said, I got in to trouble, and had to make adjustments.”

“Was it Morgoth's men?” Curufin asked, and he wasn't twisting, but his fingers were still wrapped around the splint. Celegorm vaguely registered he would likely have to fix it and wished he could have carried Oromë's work around his wrist longer. He felt a stupid flutter in his chest at the thought of Oromë, and kept his cold expression through it only by force of will.

“No,” he said. “Other's than he are not our friends.”

“Who?” Curufin demanded.

“I handled it,” Celegorm said.

“And why did you not come home?” Curufin demanded. “Half a night, a day, a night, and half a day.”

Celegorm blinked, opened his mouth, and had not realized it had been so long. “I was distracted,” he said, giving just enough truth.

“With _what_?” Curufin asked.

“Brother, please,” Celegorm said. “Just because you have—or is that had now—a steady lover do not think I have changed so much.”

“Even you are not stupid enough to waste so much time with one lover considering the danger,” Curufin said.

“Did I say I wasted all the time with my lover? Or even one of them?” Celegorm asked.

“You are disgusting,” Curufin said, pushing away.

“Like you are any better,” Celegorm said, rubbing his wrist and suppressing the wince through force of habit. “Just because you dally with one man, does that make it any better?”

“As you pointed out,” Curufin said. “That dalliance may be over.”

“What, have you not gone back?” Celegorm sneered and Curufin tensed. “Oh no, you did. You did and he had no time or inclination to deal with you. No one does, you know, not for very long.”

“You're still here,” Curufin said softly, dangerous.

Celegorm shrugged. “I suppose I am. Anyone else though, they're gone. Even half our brothers can barely stand you.”

“I don't see—”

“And now because of your pride, you won't go back to him,” Celegorm continued. “And he won't ever come to you. So where are you leaving yourself? Up a creek, stranded, with no way of getting him back. The closest you've come to actual human emotion, the closest to someone who can stand you, who can warm that stone heart of yours and it's already over. How pathetic, that it ends with such a whimper.”

“I could prove you wrong,” Curufin said.

“And you'd only do it to prove me wrong, wouldn't you?” Celegorm said, smiling. “He'd never understand why either, how we play on each other like fiddles—how my opinion is worth more to you than all his golden looks and his jewels and his lush mouth—”

Curufin took a jerky step toward him when a hesitant knock came at the door.

Both their heads swiveled to the door.

“Are you going to get that?” Curufin asked.

“No,” Celegorm said, but he had snapped out of the heat of the moment, crossing his arms over his chest because he forgot, and wincing before dropping them to his sides.

Luckily Curufin did not see it, already walking to the door. He stopped there, considering it as if it had any answers before the knock came again, small and almost scared but the final rap had a ring of certainty.

“Well, you're already there,” Celegorm said. “Aren't you going to open it?”

Curufin's look was full of venom, and Celegorm knew their fight was far from over but he yanked the door open, revealing a small boy of somewhere between seven and nine, with dark eyes.

“Are you Curufin?” the boy asked.

“What could a child possibly need of me?” Curufin snarled.

“So you are then?” the boy said.

“Yes, now what do you want?” Curufin said.

The boy looked at him with wide eyes for a moment, and Celegorm drifted closer, curious. Finally the boy fumbled around, producing a letter. “This is from my mother?”

“And why should I care for that?” Curufin asked, not reaching forward to take it.

“Because you're my father,” the boy said and Celegorm's jaw dropped. “And she can't take care of me anymore. So she sent me to you to finally, well, she said some mean things. But to finally be the one to take care of me.”

“What?” Celegorm asked and Curufin's hands twitched on the door, like he might closer it in the boy's face. Instead he stepped back and the boy happily wandered through. “What?” Celegorm asked again and Curufin finally turned to look at him, with shocked eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone sent me a message on tumblr saying they were "plagued" by the question of why I didn't write sex scenes. And I was like child, I know which fandom you're reading my stories in and it is clearly not this one. 
> 
> Also. That reveal is one I've been waiting for. 
> 
> To come: Turin might actually be a character. The dwarves and Sindarians don't like each other. Maybe Mim! And the continued misadventures of these Noldorian assholes.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xenophobia is incredibly alive this chapter

“Oh hell no,” Mablung said when he saw Luthien standing outside the door. “I am not putting up with this tonight.”

She arched one devastatingly perfect brow at him. “You think you have so much choice?”

“Your father would actually kill us,” Beleg offered.

“You're going to talk to Durin and his folk,” she said. “I want to come along.”

“What you want is not so relevant to this conversation as you're assuming,” Mablung said. “We're going on business and you're supposed to stay out of that.”

“Right, my father trying to smoother me,” Luthien said, her hair plaited back away from her face and a gun at her hip.

“He is our boss,” Beleg said. “We do try not to anger him as a result.”

She huffed out a breath. “Is tonight going to be so dangerous as that?”

“On the surface? No, but it always could be,” Beleg said. “We're being practical.”

“I'm coming with you,” she said again and somehow they agreed and were halfway to Moria before either of the men realized they had given in.

“Shit,” Mablung said under his breath and usually Beleg would have laughed but he looked just as put out by the outcome.

“Remind me to put in a complaint with Thingol,” Beleg whispered back.

“I'm not sure it would help,” Mablung muttered.

“I can hear you,” Luthien said, and behind her Beleg and Mablung exchanged a look.

“Why did you want to come so badly tonight, anyway?” Mablung asked, because focusing on her was easier than being left alone with his own thoughts.

She shrugged, never breaking stride. “Do you not wish sometimes just to leave? To get out and _do_ something? Than why are you surprised when I am the same way?”

“Because technically you're not supposed to do work with us,” Beleg said. “Your parents are as clear as they can be with that.”

“Fingolfin does not stop his own daughter,” she said mildly.

Mablung barked out a laugh. “I don't think your father would like to be compared to a Noldorian, for any reason.”

“Perhaps that is why he would rather smoother me alive than,” she said, voice still mild.

The banter they kept up on their way to Moria was not what Mablung had been looking for, too silted between the three of them and not the easy way he and Beleg would talk during jobs. It was not what he wanted to distract himself from the hole growing inside his chest.

But when they reached Moria they all fell silent, and the bouncer considered them seriously. “And why should I let Sindarians in, tonight?” they asked and they had that way about them that meant Mablung could not tell if they were female or male. The heavy clothing, the same hair style, and the gravely voice all confused the issue and were one of the reasons he disliked the Darrow so.

“We have official business,” Beleg said and the bouncer snorted.

“If you say so. I'm inclined to doubt it.”

“We just wish to speak to Durin.”

“Threaten more like,” the bouncer said but moved aside. “However, if your business is legitimate, far be it for me to interfere. I'm sure you know you're out numbered.”

“Moria is rather a tough nut to crack if violence if your aim,” Beleg agreed, leading the way down, Luthien with her chin held high as she followed.

The bouncer snorted as Mablung brought up the rear. “There is a reason we've survived so long,” they said and Mablung shook his head. The Darrow had always frustrated him, with their secretive way and proud bearing, too small a group to be a real threat and never acknowledging the truth of that.

Which did not make Moria any less impressive. Rumors of Nargothrond implied it was more elaborate but built in the same underground style. But the starkness of the stone in Moria gave it some of it's power, the geometric lines carved in to the rock and the sound of crashing waves not too distant. There was an entrance from the land, which they had come down, and another from the sea which was only down a short corridor.

They had barely stepped off the stairs when Azaghâl was there, his beard at least declaring his gender. “And what do we owe this to?” he asked, crossing his muscular arms over his chest.

“We would like to speak to Durin,” Beleg said, the only known negotiator between them.

“About what?” Azaghâl asked. “The man is stressed enough without you lot showing up.”

“Azaghâl,” Durin said, appearing behind him. “They are our guests here tonight. You should be more kind.” A smile flickered around his face, but otherwise his expression was not happy to see them.

Azaghâl snorted. “Right, of course. Do _please_ some sit down. I'll get you tea.”

“Don't you have something stronger than that?” Mablung asked.

“You came for business, you get tea,” Azaghâl said and with one look at Durin strode off.

“Please,” Durin said, gesturing for them to take a seat at a table. There was no band, just the sound of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the sound of the ocean.

They sat, Luthien still looking around.

“So what brings Thingol's people out tonight?” Durin asked, and everything about him appeared mild, from his expression to the way he spoke to the way he sat.

“We would like to talk,” Beleg said.

“Make threats you mean,” Durin said, still mild.

“You assume much,” Luthien said.

“Is it a wrong assumption to make?” Durin asked as Azaghâl returned with a tea pot and several stacked cups. “Thank you, Azaghâl.”

Beleg's smile was forced as he accepted one of the cups. “Perhaps it is not. However, he would remind you of your commitments—”

“And that takes three armed people to express?” Durin asked, sipping his own tea. “Hm, good choice Azaghâl. This is a good blend.”

Azaghâl smiled, not taking his eyes off the Sindarians. “Thank you.”

Mablung was only getting more tense. “If you do not mind—”

“Oh, but I do mind,” Durin said, and there was steel in his voice. “I mind very much that Thingol believes he can push us around and squeeze us dry for whatever he desires. We owe him nothing, and never have. What story he has built in his head is only a story.”

“How dare you,” Luthien said, tensing.

Durin inclined his head, still sipping his tea. “Perhaps from a certain view. But believe me, I do not consider it a lie at all. We have never owed you anything. And if we did that debt had been paid plenty of times over.”

“It has never—”

“Has Thingol ever expressed what he thinks we owe him?” Durin asked. “Considering my people helped him to construct Doriath? Or is he only jealous that the Noldorian has Nargothrond and the jewels that once belonged to us? One of those things were not ours to sell when he acquired it from Morgoth's lost holdings. The other was a gift of esteem, one Thingol has never earned.”

“And the protection he once gave you?” Beleg asked.

Azaghâl barked out a laugh and Durin's eyes went cold. “There was never protection,” he said, slowly, deadly, and set the tea cup down.

Before Mablung could protest there was a commotion at the door and Durin's eyes widened in surprise, rising as Caranthir came sweeping toward them. “Noldorian,” he said. “My, we are popular tonight. I did not expect you back so soon.”

“What can I say, when times are what they are?” Caranthir said, and looked down at the Sindarians, Beleg and Mablung's faces both stony in anger. “Ah, and you have other guests.”

“I believe they were perhaps just leaving.”

“So you would ally with this filth and insist you owe us nothing?” Beleg asked and Caranthir narrowed his eyes.

“Perhaps I see more eye to eye with him,” Durin said flatly.

“His people are liars,” Beleg said rising. “This one is particularly despicable specimen.”

“Ah, so we do have something in common,” Durin said. “Your disregard.”

“You call Thingol out at a party once and it is like he never forgets it,” Caranthir said, and his tone was even to match Durin's but already some red spots were starting to appear on his pale complexion.

Azaghâl snorted and gave Caranthir a considering look as Mablung pushed himself up.

“So you will entertain him, but not our requests?”

“Your request was a demand,” Durin said. “I suggest you considering leaving now.”

“Ah yes, and what Durin the Deathless says, lesser beings must follow,” Mablung spat and Durin's eyes narrowed before he smoothed his expression back out.

“Yes,” he said. “That is how it goes.”

“Then we have no more business here,” Luthien said, and somehow she made their retreat graceful, like they had planned it. “This is a warning, however.”

“We have weathered worse storms than you,” Durin replied, and they turned away, Mablung sparing a glance back at where Caranthir and Durin stood together now. That was alliance they would have to watch carefully.

-0-

“What the fuck?” Celegorm hissed, dragging Curufin away in to the doorway to the kitchen, leaving the boy kicking his heels on the couch.

“I don't know,” Curufin said.

“You know there's a broken glass by the door?” the boy asked and when they both stared at him he ducked his head down. “Oh, sorry. You want to do adult talking. I'll be quiet.”

“Who is he?” Celegorm demanded, as they looked back at each other.

Curufin just bared his teeth, bowing his head over the letter and his face paled. “Oh no.”

“Is he yours?” Celegorm asked. “I thought Finrod was your first serious lover. Why didn't you tell us about this? When did this _happen_? Isn't he too old?”

“No, he,” Curufin shook his head. “I didn't know about him.”

“Curufin,” Celegorm said, something dangerous edging in to his voice.

“It's not my fault! Not entirely!” Curufin said. “I only met her once, I was sixteen—or fifteen—and desperate and angry. It was my first,” and he shook his head, looking down at the letter again. “We never saw each other again and I suppose that's how we both wanted it.”

Celegorm blinked.

Curufin snarled up at him. “Don't give me that look, have you never sired any bastards whose mothers would never tell you under pain of death?”

“Not that I'm aware of!” Celegorm said, though a terror of something he had never considered painted itself across his face.

“Well I wasn't aware of this one!” Curufin said and the boy was still on the couch, looking like he was trying not to pay attention to them.

They both stilled and looked back at him before back at each other. “What do we do?” Celegorm asked and Curufin shook his head mutely.

They stared at the boy again.

Finally, Curufin walked over. “Your mother says she cannot take care of you anymore?”

“She's dying,” the boy said, soft. “She doesn't want me to know but it's hard not to see it. She doesn't have any family. It's always just been us.” He kicked his tiny feet against the couch foot again. “She doesn't want me to see when it happens. So she sent me here.” He looked up, and his features were too clearly Curufin's to ever doubt it. “Will you keep me?”

“I,” Curufin shot a desperate look at Celegorm and nodded. “I'll try. What is your name, child?”

“Celebrimbor,” he answered, beaming at his father and relaxing slightly. “I always have wanted to meet you.”

Curufin shot his brother another look and Celegorm reached for his hat. “Come on,” he said. “We should go see mother.”

-0-

Durin sat across from Caranthir. “So you came back.”

“I came to speak of an alliance,” Caranthir said. “That need has not abated.”

The corners of Durin's mouth twitched. “And we, what, passed some test to prove ourselves worthy? We are good enough to ally with you?”

“I would have offered on our first meeting had events not gotten away from me,” Caranthir said.

“And why would we ally with you in turn?” Durin asked.

“We could have much to offer each other,” Caranthir said, inclining his head toward the door. “Including a dislike of Thingol.”

Durin snorted and turned his cup around in front of him a couple times.

“So,” Caranthir said. “Durin the Deathless?”

Durin scowled, the first time such a negative expression had crossed his face. “It's a damn stupid name. Especially for a gangster. The Deathless indeed. It's like painting a target on my back. That fucker says he's deathless, shoot him first!”

“So you did not choose it yourself,” Caranthir surmised. “Why keep it?”

“Because my father gave it to me,” Durin said. “Because it means something to my people.”

Caranthir's brows twitched up. “It is traditional?”

“It comes with the name of Durin,” he said.

“That is more than I think I have ever heard of your traditions at one time,” Caranthir said and Durin snorted.

“We do like to be a secretive bunch,” he said. “For some good reasons, and some not as good reasons. But that is what we are and that is the name I bear, so I take the target on my back with it.”

“You have survived this long,” Caranthir said.

“Impressive, isn't it?” Durin said lightly.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lick the blood from my fists](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3747160) by [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss)
  * [Salida](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768334) by [thegreatpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin)
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